Solace
by Pink-Pencil-Girl303
Summary: Before the Unification War tore the 'Verse apart, it first pulled two people together. 19-year-old Malcolm Reynolds, aspiring Independent fighter, and Inara Serra, 20, Companion-in-training. Fate binds them to each other. Duty divides them. And by the time they realize what's worth fighting for, it might be too late to save it. Pre-series AU, Mal/Inara.
1. Shadow

**Disclaimer:** Firefly and its characters hail from the mind of Joss Whedon, and belong to the evil Blue Sun Corporation- I mean, *ahem* 20th Century Fox.

* * *

 _This is no immutable world._

 _We know less than its atoms, rushing through._

 _Light, light. Light as air, to them,_

 _for all we know. Trust me on this one,_

 _there is happiness at stake._

\- from "No Less" by Alice B. Fogel

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

SHADOW

 _02 - 22 - 2506_

Out on the plains along the edge of Birdseye, the nights could get awfully cold. Mal had expected this. He'd chosen a thick woolen shirt from his drawer by touch, when dressing for his mission in the dark, not an hour before.

But he hadn't factored in the heat of his own adrenaline. Excitement laced with fear, prickling along his neck beneath his two collars. The wool shirt pressed too close, scratching his skin, below the the standard-issue maintenance uniform he'd pulled on over his clothes. Sweat soaked his chest, dripping down his temples.

" _Tā mā de,"_ he muttered, and wiped his brow. He rubbed his palms on the ill-fitting jumpsuit, and jammed the buttons on the metal box in his hands. Its screen had gone dark again.

Mal decided that if he ever ran into the travelling peddler who'd sold him this piece of _gǒushǐ_ electromagnetic transmission reader, he'd shove the thing down the man's throat. True, it was only for home use, to determine if one's personal computer system was emitting the proper signals. It was never meant to be used in a high stakes situation.

Like trying to locate an underground comms box inside an Alliance compound, in the dead of night. For instance.

Mal pressed the power button, and drummed his fingers along the sides of the device. He lifted his eyes to scan the area.

The compound lay empty and dark. The next security detail wouldn't be coming around for another ten minutes. Maybe longer, since the guards were no doubt loath to leave their cozy quarters and trudge around the freezing autumn night.

Mal had to suppress a chuckle, in spite of himself, at the buildings of the compound. He couldn't help it, when he imagined the officers tucked into their bunks inside the squatty, turnip-like spheres of steel. But in truth, it was no laughing matter. The structures established paramilitary presence in troublesome Border planet towns, like Mal's. Designed for quick construction and quick removal, if necessary.

They'd sure got them put up in a hurry. That was almost four years ago, and there they still were.

The reader flickered back to life. Mal shot into the open, holding the box over the bare earth between the buildings and the edge of the compound. The high-pitched hum of the laser fence made his ears itch.

He cupped the display in his palms, watching the numbers rise. When the affirmative symbol blinked at him, he stopped, and clicked the reader off, shoving it into his pocket.

He grinned. _Now for the fun part._

He dropped into a crouch, and pulled the bag off his shoulders. His 'equipment maintenance toolkit,' if anyone asked. Thankfully, they hadn't. He unzipped the bag to reveal a home-grown remote-controlled explosive.

"Hello, beautiful," he murmured.

The beauty of the bomb, in Mal's opinion, lay in its simplicity. The first explosion would open up the ground beneath, exposing the communications box. The second charge would tumble into the hole. About ten seconds later, the screens all across the compound's Cortex mainframe would show nothing but static.

Mal pulled a trowel from the bag. The first charge had to start with about a foot of depth, or else it wouldn't do much but make a loud bang. He made the first slice into the ground, and grimaced. It had been a dry summer, and the fall rains hadn't done much to soften the earth.

Somewhere in the clump of buildings behind him, a motion-activated light clicked on. A wash of white tossed his own shadow over his work. Mal's heart seized. He turned to look over his shoulder, but couldn't see anyone.

Fear flooded his veins. Moving faster, he dug into the ground just deep enough to bury the lower part of the bomb. The secondary charge stuck out of the hole. Mal shoved the trowel and gloves back into the bag, and threw it over one shoulder. He stood up, leaving the bomb laid bare to the light.

His own movement masked the sound of footsteps behind him. Otherwise he might've heard the clumsy approach of the guards, before too late.

"You there. Don't move."

He froze.

"Turn around." The guard sounded young. "Keep your hands where we can see them."

"I'm gettin' mixed messages here." Mal kept his voice taut. "Should I stop movin', or turn around?"

He heard a chuckle, hastily silenced, before the same guard snapped, "Turn around, citizen, and state your purpose here."

In the near distance, on the other side of the fence, a small light flickered. It flashed once, twice, then went dark. Mal smiled.

"Citizen," the guard barked. "Turn around, or we will be forced to subdue you."

Mal's jaw went tight. "I ain't no citizen of yours." Every thread of his being tensed, ready to break. "And I won't be subdued."

The laser fence sputtered out. It left an infinite, inviting darkness in its place.

Mal sprinted forward, kicking up freshly-dug soil in his wake. He outran the reach of the compound's lights, let the night swallow him whole, dodging the sonic rifle blasts which bent the air around him. He threw himself past the fence. A figure took shape out of the shadows, running alongside him.

"Jesus _Christ,_ Mal." Hadley McDannel's frail voice was even thinner for lack of breath. He barely kept pace, mouth hanging open, as he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if the guards were giving chase.

Mal grabbed Hadley's arm. "Don't look back, just detonate it. _Now!"_

Hadley looked down at his hands, to input the sequence into the remote, and stumbled, choking on air. Mal held onto him, pulling him upright again. They hurled themselves at the empty plains ahead.

The explosion tore a hole through the night, a brazen knock from the other side of the ground. It echoed in high, ringing tones, in the panicked shouts of the guards, the wail of the compound's alarm system. Another knock followed, even deeper, shattering all other sound. The splinters reached Mal's ears.

He let out a whoop. Hadley laughed, high and giddy. They kept running.

The land stretched unbroken, until a row of trees appeared on the horizon, blurring the hem of the sky. Mal slowed, slipping between the slender trunks. With the last of his momentum, he crashed down the bank and into the creek. Hadley followed, after glancing back in the direction of the compound.

" _Wo cào."_ Mal panted for breath. "Did we really give 'em the slip?"

"Looks like." Hadley's eyes were wide, shining in the moonlight that dappled the creek. "We did it, Mal."

They stood still a moment, staring at each other, letting the ice-water sting their ankles. Then Mal broke into a grin, and dove down to scoop up a handful of the stream. He tossed it into Hadley's face.

"We did it!" he cackled.

Hadley lunged toward him with a growl, throwing his matchstick arm around Mal's neck. They hadn't been evenly matched, in terms of brawn, since Mal's first growth spurt four years before, but it didn't stop them from tussling when the mood struck.

Mal threw Hadley off easily, rubbing his knuckles into the shorter boy's black corkscrew curls.

"Git offa me." Hadley's voice stretched in a grin. Mal obliged him. Hadley sobered a bit, as he straightened up. "We ain't outta trouble yet. We better walk in the creek awhile, in case they try and track us."

Mal nodded. He knew to listen to Hadley's ideas. They were often sound, and a hell of a lot more sensible than his own. It had been Mal's idea to plant the bomb. But Hadley had built it. He'd hacked into that fence, too, which had just saved Mal from being arrested, or worse.

"Hey. Danny boy." He clapped a hand on Hadley's shoulder. "Thanks for savin' my _pì gǔ_ back there."

"You idiot." Hadley shook his head, grinning. "I couldn't let you get yourself caught, and leave me to suffer the wrath of Silas all by my lonesome."

Mal's hand slackened, and fell back to his side. He stopped dead.

Hadley kept talking, crashing through the water. "He's gonna go _cracked_ when he finds out-"

"Hadley." Mal waited until his friend had turned around to finish. "Silas can't ever find out about this."

Hadley's brow creased. "But Mal-"

"If he knows, then his bosses will, too. And the Independents don't take kindly to meddlers like us."

"He's your guardian," Hadley said, soft, reverent. "He'd never rat you out."

"That ain't the point." Mal started walking again. "They'd get it outta him somehow, and then-"

"The Independents are the reason you planned this in the first place," Hadley tossed out. Mal stopped, and turned to face him. Hadley didn't falter. "You've been tryin' to get in with them for years. And they've always said you're too young. Immature, unstable. You did this for them, Mal. You did this to prove them wrong."

"No. I didn't." Mal's voice dropped to a flicker. "I'm done tryin' to prove myself."

Hadley's mouth twitched. He ducked his eyes, and Mal knew he didn't believe it.

But when he spoke again, it was only to invite Mal to crash on his bedroom floor that night, so as not to wake Silas coming in. Mal accepted, grateful.

As he and Hadley climbed out of the creek with feet half-frozen, nearing the cottages on the outskirts of town, Mal pulled at the chain around his neck, to lift the small silver cross from below his shirt. Gripped in a fist, its shape imprinted into his palm.

He shut his eyes, and lifted up a prayer, to thank God for that night's success.

For the first time since his mother's death, he'd done something right, something real, and no one could take it from him.

/*/*\\*\

Mal's eyes had half-fluttered shut, when the good Word thundered in his ears.

"Yes, my friends, _praise_ be to God." Father Dale had the voice of a six-foot-seven cowhand inside the body of a human vole, short and whiskery. "For He is on the side of the righteous."

Mal blinked. He kept his hands folded in front of him, suppressing the urge to rub his eyes. He was grateful to Garland for taking in stride Mal's surprise appearance on her son's bedroom floor that morning, but did she have to wake them up so _gāi sǐ_ early? It was true that folk on Shadow considered sleeping past seven basically akin to the sin of Sloth, unless you were sick or dying, but Mal thought an exception ought to be made sometimes. On the Lord's day and all.

He glanced sideways at Hadley, who had clearly caught him nodding off. His mouth clamped tight, nostrils twitching. Mal tipped him a look, one eyebrow raised, and turned to face front again. He cracked a smirk.

Father Dale paced in front of his podium, the way he did when he really found his rhythm. Mal had to admit, he was a hell of a preacher. That morning, sparks were flying out the little man's mouth.

"These are the times that try our souls. We are being tried, we are being tested, for Satan and his agents never rest in their lust for our spirits. They want to crush us under their heels, to destroy everything we've built. To take what we love."

Grunts of agreement rippled through the congregation, heads bobbing. Mal looked around. It seemed the whole population of Birdseye was crammed between those four listing walls. A light shone out of every face, banishing their weariness, the tired lines around their mouths. Their eyes were lost in Father Dale, or closed in contemplation of the man's words.

"Our troubles are many." The preacher rested a hand on his podium, and looked out over the pews. His voice rang like a bell through the dust-ridden air. "Our troubles are many, my friends, but so are we. We are many, and our faith makes us mighty!"

All around him, people nodded. Mal nodded with them. From the back of the church, someone belted, "Amen," and there were a few throaty echoes.

"Now, let us lift our voices in song, to praise His glory."

After the hymn and final remarks, the church emptied itself of people, into the cold, clear morning outside. Mal made his goodbyes to Hadley and his mother, thanking Garland for her hospitality and fine breakfast, before he joined the churning throng near the door.

Mal elbowed his way through, muttering apologies. He kept his head down. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew _him_ especially, but he didn't have time for small-talk. He had to get back home, and change out of last night's clothes. Then he needed a story to explain his midnight disappearance to Silas. It had to be good.

He made it through the crowd on the steps of the church, walking through the fog of his own thoughts, when he ran straight into someone tall and narrow. Mal stumbled backwards. He looked up, into a familiar set of flinty eyes.

Silas Hunt loomed over him, even more stone-faced than usual, his long black hair mussed and greasy. A pallor hung over his weather-tanned skin. He looked as though he'd had a rough night.

"Been lookin' for you." He glanced down, at Mal's rumpled, dirty clothes, then back up. There was no surprise, no question in his gaze.

"Yeah, uh, same here," Mal stammered. "I expect you're wonderin' where I was last-"

Silas cut him off. "We gotta go."

Mal nodded, but Silas didn't see, already stalking down Main Street. Mal followed. It wasn't long before the silence got to him, kicking his nerves into gear.

"Did something happen in the next town over?" He meant to ask it casually, but instead the question burst like a dam breaking. At least he remembered to use the code name for the Alliance compound, lest he be overheard by one of the 'peacekeepers' stationed on every corner.

Silas didn't even look at him. He kept silent, mouth clamped shut, his jaw jutting out from the sharp lines of his profile.

Mal chewed his lip. Silas had been his legal guardian for three and a half years, and before that, one of the many hands on the ranch, looking out for Mal since he was crawling. Mal knew his temperament, knew when he was angry, down to the precise shade and duration. But this was something else.

He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Silas, wait-"

"I know, Mal," he snapped, and jerked his shoulder out of reach. "I know," he said again, quieter.

Mal was stuck for a moment, open-mouthed. As soon as his legs started working again, he hurried to catch up.

"How?" he demanded. "How'd you know it was me?"

"It's my job."

Mal heard the full meaning behind the word: his job as Mal's guardian, and his job with the Independents, which didn't have a title. Strictly speaking, it didn't exist.

"So- do they…" Mal's blood thickened, pulsing in his head. " _They_ don't know, do they?"

Silas didn't say anything.

Mal grabbed a fistful of his brown leather jacket, pulling them to a stop. "If they know, I need to hide," he breathed. "They don't let people mess with their operations. I won't be let off easy for something like this-"

"That's enough outta you." His voice came out spiked, and Mal let go of him. Silas turned around. "Listen to me." He spoke low and fast, matter-of-fact, the way he used to coach Mal around the horses. "We're goin' to meet some folks. And you better keep your fool mouth from shootin' off as it's wont to do. Speak when spoken to, and show respect. Understand?"

Mal gulped air, enough to ask, "Who are they?"

Silas held his eyes a moment. "They're your only chance." He turned away.

Mal clenched his jaw, and fell into step, imitating his guardian's long, impatient stride. Questions burned in his throat, but he swallowed them down.

For once in his life, he was afraid of the answers.

/*/*\\*\

There was a reason Birdseye had been one of the first towns on Shadow to be occupied by the Alliance. Mal estimated a healthy two thirds of the population over the age of eighteen were involved with resistance operations, in one way or another. But there were rules. Rules about everything, from code words, to coat colors, to who had contact with those in Command.

Planting that bomb, Mal had broken the most important one. _Never act alone._

Silas wound a cautious route through town, Mal trailing along, until at last they reached the general store. When they walked in, the shopkeeper paused his sweeping, and pointed to a set of shelves in the back. The shelves were on hinges, and Silas pulled them away to reveal an opening in the wall.

They crawled through, descending a cramped flight of stairs. A narrow passage opened out into a musty cavern of a room, far larger than Mal had expected.

Barely two steps in, a figure cut itself out of the shadows beside him. A pair of hands spun Mal around, and shoved him toward the wall by the entrance.

"Hey!" Mal's palms smacked stone. Silas landed on the wall next to him, in the same position, and shot him a look. They were both treated to a full body pat-down, from their armpits to their heels.

"You must be the welcoming committee," Mal deadpanned.

"Shut it," Silas hissed.

Mal's attendant grabbed him by the shoulders again, and pulled him away from the wall. The other greeter, wily and bearded, did the same with Silas. But Silas was released.

Mal wasn't.

He felt the rough kiss of rope on his wrists. Before he even thought to get away, the bearded man had wrapped his arms around Mal's shoulders, holding him still while the other tied him up.

"The hell is this-" Mal protested, voice weak and pinched, useless, because he knew. He knew exactly what it was. Panic weighed heavy in his limbs, filling his lungs. He struggled in vain against the thug's grip, and looked over to Silas.

His face had closed up hard. He looked at Mal the way one looks down into a freshly-dug grave, as one stands by, holding the shovel.

Mal couldn't form words. He hoped his eyes were hot enough to sear into Silas what he was feeling then, as the first man finished the knots.

They hauled Mal by the shoulders into a circle of light, cast by a single bulb hanging overhead. He resisted, dragging his feet, letting out a growl as he strained his wrists against the rope. The knots were so tight he couldn't even make fists.

"Malcolm Reynolds," a woman's voice drawled, one Mal recognized before he saw her face. "Glad you could make it."

Mal stumbled forward, as the men let go of him. He looked up into the cold, grey gaze of Jo Mercey.

Her sharp features complemented sharper eyes, glaring at Mal from under precise black eyebrows. Her tawny skin caught the light from overhead. She made it hard to look at her directly, a skill acquired long before the Alliance had arrived, back in the days when she'd served as mayor of Birdseye. Now, as a leader of the Independents, it continued to serve her well.

Jo was the only one sitting down, established behind a table, and flanked on either side by two strangers. In the shadows beyond them lurked another familiar face. Anders Prince, wearing a smug, easy smile. He had only a few years on Mal, and a far harder reputation for causing trouble. But he'd been given his brown coat three years before, when he was only 21.

The silence stretched until Mal's ears began to ring. He kept his face still, jaw set. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the stranger on Jo's right, a hard-faced blonde woman. Her hand had moved to the pistol on her hip.

Jo leaned back in her chair, with a sneer. "You made a real _yì tuán zāo_ for us to untangle."

Mal lifted his chin. "If you're gonna kill me, go ahead." He forced the words to come out steady. "No point in tyin' me up and talkin' at me first. Didn't you learn it ain't polite to play with your food?"

Jo's brow arched. "You got a mouth on you, boy," she said dryly, looking down at the tablet in front of her. "But last night's security footage already told us that."

She tapped the screen. A recorded voice scratched out, _"Citizen, turn around, or we will be forced to subdue you."_ Mal's reply was warped by distance, but clear enough to be heard. _"I ain't no citizen of yours. And I won't be subdued."_

Jo touched the screen again to halt the playback. She looked back up at him, with an unfelt smile. "Real pretty little speech," she said.

Mal narrowed his eyes. "How'd you get that? I knocked out all the cameras close enough to read me."

"Our girl Sam here," Jo tossed her head at the blonde, "ripped it off the guards' body-cam feeds. They didn't get your face, but that just means they'll be pullin' in every young dark-haired male they can get their gloves on. Maybe even Hadley McDannel." She leaned on the name, knowing.

Mal swallowed a mouthful of gritty air. He shut his eyes. _Please, not Hadley. Kill me, but let him live. Please._

Jo stood, making her way around to the front of the table. "I hate to be put in this position, Malcolm." She stopped, and levelled her gaze. "But if I let hot-head punks like you pull stunts like this, where would I be?"

"It wasn't a stunt. We-" Mal gulped, to swallow the word back down. " _I_ been plannin' this for months. I thought it all out. I was careful."

A laugh bust out of the other, nameless stranger, a heavy-set man with a gold ring in his nose. He shook his head.

"Careful, no. Lucky, yes." Jo leaned back against the table, arms crossed. "We'd 'a dealt with you in the usual way, but Silas pulled my ear in another direction."

Mal whirled around, to find the man's face in the shadows, his features sketched out in the dim light. Their eyes met. Mal opened his mouth, only to close it again. He looked back at Jo.

"You shoulda heard him, boy." Her lips curled. "Don't think he's ever uttered so many words at once as when he argued for your life." She tilted her head. "But I wasn't convinced 'til I saw the security footage. And I saw a little of what he sees in you."

Jo held out a hand behind her. The stocky man handed over the tablet, which she flicked through as she spoke.

"Our ranks are full of careful men, Malcolm. Careful is good. But you know what they say about a good thing." She glanced up, into Mal's eyes. "Maybe you weren't careful. But you had a plan and you followed through, and you kept your head when things went sideways. We need more of that in the Intelligence Corps."

"Intelligence," Mal echoed. He knew what it meant, _that's what Silas does_ , but in that moment he couldn't grasp what Jo was saying. Her words stuck like flies in his ears, making noise without sense.

Jo set the tablet back down on the table. "How old are you, now?" she asked Mal, looking past his shoulder, to gesture at one of the bodyguards.

Mal managed to choke out, "Nineteen." He jumped in surprise as the same man who'd tied his hands began to undo the knots.

"You ever been off-world?"

"No, ma'am."

She smiled. "Well, you're about to get your chance."

The blood drained from Mal's head, set his heart beating at full gallop. He rubbed his wrists, and stared at Jo, mouth agape. "Are… are you offerin' me a _job?"_

"I wouldn't call it an offer, strictly speakin'. 'Offer' implies a choice."

Mal blinked. "Right."

"You can't stay on Shadow, Malcolm. Not after what you did." She traced her slender jaw with her thumb, and gave a nod. "But there are plenty other places where you could be useful to us."

"And Hadley McDannel?" Mal crossed his arms. "Will he be useful to you, too?"

"We'll leave him be, for now." Jo Mercey took a step forward, narrowing her pale eyes. "Listen to me, boy." Her voice was a dangerous kind of quiet. "This doesn't mean you've been pardoned. Only that you've got the opportunity to commute your sentence, _if_ you can show us you're capable in the field. Got it?"

Mal didn't move. "Yes, ma'am."

"You've got _rèxuè._ Ain't no doubt on that score. But it takes a lot more to make a good operative." Jo held up three fingers, pointing to them as she spoke. "You have to be patient. You have to know when to dig in your heels, and when to run." She gripped all three. "Most important, you have to follow orders."

Mal uncrossed his arms, taking in a breath. He let it out slowly. "I can do whatever you need me to." Heat crackled beneath his words.

Jo held his gaze for another breath, before she offered her hand. They shook.

"Let's get down to business, then." Jo picked up the tablet, tapped the screen, and handed it to Mal. "Your target's name is Solomon Zhi."

Mal scrolled through the public figure profile, stopping on a capture ripped off a press release from some Core news outlet. The man was in his mid-40s, baring perfect white teeth to the camera, waving a soft, moneyed hand.

"He's Parliament. Senior member of the Military Affairs Council, with aspirations to the Chancellor seat. We need someone close enough to tell us where he goes and when. Who visits him, how long they stick around. Get a whiff of what he's up to."

Jo reached over to tap the screen. A different capture popped up. It featured an enormous white and gold mansion, surrounded by lush green lawns.

"Zhi's a bit of a Renaissance man, likes to think he's very cultured. Got a big fancy estate, where he rides his horses. And he needs a new stable hand." Jo took the tablet back. "You're good with horses, aren't you Malcolm?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mal nodded. "I cared for all the horses on my mama's ranch. Silas taught me how."

Jo looked over at the heavy-set man. He pulled an envelope out of his coat, and handed it to Mal. Jo gestured for him to open it.

He shook out a different life, with his face on it. Ident card, work visa, travel permit. Perfect fakes, down to every detail, with his picture on each one, next to the name of a stranger. His new identity: _Wesley Gale._ Mal stared.

"How'd you-" The question died in his throat. All at once, he understood.

They'd been planning to offer him the mission. To give him his chance. And in one night he'd gone and thrown it all arse-up, without any idea what he was doing. How easily he would have been written off. A couple shots in the neck, out in someone's wheat field. _'Dealt with.'_

Mal felt Silas at his shoulder. He looked up, and found the man's eyes, glistening in the stark light from overhead. Jo fell into conversation with her subordinates. Mal let Silas pull him aside.

"Did you know they were going to…?" Mal couldn't finish.

Silas shook his head. "Jo didn't tell me until I came to her this mornin'."

Mal had to swallow twice, blinking fast, before he could look Silas in the eyes. "I'm such an idiot." His voice rose. "I'd be dead, if you hadn't-"

"Hush, now. Ain't no time to worry on what's past." Silas gripped Mal's shoulders, mouth tight, grave. "You're 'bout to be dropped headfirst into a world you ain't ready for. There'll be a lot that won't make sense to you. That includes your orders. You gotta kill your instinct to smart-talk your betters. You do what you're told, _dǒng ma?"_

Mal's brow knit tight. "Silas…"

He nodded, in silent receipt of the words Mal couldn't say. He tightened his hold. "You gotta keep your head, son," he murmured. "No matter what happens."

"I will." Mal held his gaze as long as he could, before Silas let go of him, and stepped back. Mal turned to face Jo and the others, squaring his shoulders. "What else you got for me?"

"Nothin' much, for now," said Jo. "You've got twelve hours to collect your things, say your goodbyes. No specifics, mind. Then you leave for Redcreek, where you'll catch your transport ship. Prince will be goin' with you. He'll give you everythin' else you need to know on the way there."

Anders slipped into the light, and flashed a grin, teeth gleaming against the warm brown tint of his skin. "We're goin' to Sihnon, Mal. The most glittery gumball of a planet in all the Core. Ain't that shiny?"

 _Sihnon._ "Shiny," he agreed.

Jo tossed a look at Anders, before her eyes came to rest on Mal. "Don't forget what I told you, Malcolm." Her gaze demanded his, pulling something out of him. "Patience, prudence, loyalty. We live, fight, and die by those words. You better be ready for that."

Mal gave himself over to the rhythm of his pulse, so warm and loud it seemed to be outside of him, in the air against his skin. For the first time, he could see clearly God's great plan for him, coming true at last.

 _He let them take everything, so you could learn to fight back._

"I'm ready."

* * *

translations:

 _Tā mā de_ \- dammit, f*ck

 _gǒushǐ_ \- dog feces

 _Wo cào_ \- f*ck (positive connotation, as in 'f*ck yeah!')

 _gāi sǐ_ \- damn, damned

 _yì tuán zāo_ \- mess (a difficult situation)

 _rèxuè_ \- hot blood, righteous ardor

* * *

And so it begins. If I've managed to pique your interest, I'd love to hear from you in a review! If I haven't, I would be even more grateful to hear why not.

I've compiled a soundtrack of sorts to accompany this story. Feel free to ignore completely. (From here on out I'm going to include the tracks at the beginning of each chapter): **Opening Credits:** "The Book of Kells" by Bruno Coulais, from _The Secret of Kells: Original Soundtrack (2009) +_ **I Ain't No Citizen:** "End Credits" by David Newman, from _Serenity: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (2005)_

As you have no doubt surmised, this story will remain squarely in the universe Joss created. The AU aspect comes from the circumstances that bring Mal and Inara together much earlier than they meet according to the canon timeline. But, if it please you, this story could be 'canon-compliant.' (That will make a lot more sense by the end, promise.)

I do hope to see you in the next chapter. Until then, stay shiny!


	2. Sihnon

Hello, hello! I am very excited to be posting the second chapter, but first I want to thank those who gave this story a follow/favorite: you're awesome, and I do hope you continue to enjoy. In particular, I owe a tremendous thanks to **Wren66** for your review: I can't begin to tell you how much it meant to have your feedback. I agree that it's so fun to imagine characters' possible origins, and what their younger selves were like before they became, well, jaded adults. Again, thank you so much for reviewing!

This chapter takes us a 'Verse apart from the last one, and into Inara's world...

Soundtrack \- **House Madrassa:** "Inside The Tam House" by Greg Edmondson, from _Firefly: Original Soundtrack_

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

SIHNON

 _02 - 29 - 2506_

Silence padded the room, woven into the brocaded fabric which covered the walls. Within the quiet, Inara picked out threads of noise. Some were distant, like the wind brushing over the mountainside beyond the window. Others close, like the sound of peaceful breathing from the cushion beside her.

The breathing began to deepen, into a snore.

Inara broke full-lotus pose to poke her neighbor in the thigh. "Riz," she hissed.

Riz sprang up straight, choking on air. A blush sprang to her milky cheeks. Inara raised her eyebrows at her, then risked a glance at the House Priestess.

The woman wove between the cushions spread over the room, one for each meditating trainee. Min Song had a dancer's tread; her slippers seemed to barely touch the ground. The woman's fawn-colored skin shone in the sunlight, its glow reflected in her dark, angular eyes.

She turned to walk toward Inara, twisting the flat wooden stick in her hands. Inara shut her eyes, a moment too late. Her heartbeat picked up pace.

A breathy sound sliced the air above Inara's head. She flinched, as the wood slat struck her upper arm. Her hands twitched with the urge to rub away the sting, but she kept still. Min's robes shaped a lock of wind out of the air, as she swept past.

Silence settled once again. The pain reduced to static, and Inara's focus returned to her breath. Priestess Song had perfected the art of using the _kyosaku_ to encourage discipline, and never left a lasting mark. The minutes passed, as always, in a timeless flow, until the gong called the session to an end. Inara opened her eyes.

Min stood at the head of the room, and led the bow which finished each group meditation. Eighteen heads bent toward their Priestess. Then they rose, and filed out of the room.

In the corridor, they fell into step alongside the younger half of the Training House, who poured out of the adjacent meditation room at the same time. The air warmed, buzzing with the chatter of almost two dozen twelve to sixteen-year-old trainees. Those of Inara's set, aged seventeen to twenty, were far more reserved.

Most of them, anyway.

Riz linked arms with Inara, and leaned close. "I swear on Buddha's bald head that one day I'm going to stand up, rip that stick out of Priestess Song's hands, and break it in half over my knee. Right in the middle of meditation. I swear I will."

Inara shot her a sidelong glance. "Riz…"

"And the only reason you talked was to keep _me_ from getting smacked, for snoring again," she went on, as the two neared the courtyard, where the first meal of the day was taken in the warmer months. "It's not fair."

"I'm alright." Inara smiled. "Truly. You've suffered the swift rebuke of the _kyosaku_ far more often than I."

Riz shook her copper head. "Still."

They found cushions next to each other, around one of the boards laid out on the white stone paving of the courtyard, spread with the steamed buns, eggs and porridge of their morning meal.

"So, study session in my room today? I'll trade you archery tips for your notes on _The_ _Art of Healing Touch_." Riz winked, shoving half a steamed bun into her mouth.

Inara shook her head, pouring a cup of green tea. "I can't. I have the tea ceremony exam."

Riz almost choked. She swallowed, with some difficulty, and turned to Inara, eyes wide.

"I'm not worried," Inara went on. "I've practiced so many times, I could pour tea for the Prime Minister, in my sleep."

" _Aiya,_ you're brave." Riz picked up another bun. "When I have to take the exam next year, I won't make it five minutes before disaster. I'll probably trip over my own dress, and spill boiling water on the evaluator's lap, leaving them no choice but to declare me a dishonor on the House, and send me out into the wilds, with nothing but a scrap of fabric for a beggar's cloak."

Inara had to laugh. " _Kàn zài lǎotiānyé de miàn shàng_. You're not helping."

Lucinda, one of Riz's peers in the year below Inara, leaned across the meal board. "They really do expel you, if you fail any exam in your final year. It happened to Edwige Brixley, remember?"

Of course they did. Expulsion from House Madrassa was rare enough that it was rarely forgotten. Inara took a gulp of tea, and swallowed hard. The possibility of being thrown out, and denied her chance at a Companion license, made her dizzy. The House was the only home she'd ever known.

A ginger-freckled hand covered hers. Inara looked up, into Riz's eyes. They were more green than usual in the daylight, striking and keen.

"There's no way that could ever happen to you, Inara."

"Of course not." Lucinda shook her head, with a quiver of blonde curls. "You're utterly luminescent. The instructors always point you out as an example, for the rest of us."

Inara summoned a smile, looking down at her uneaten breakfast. "You're both very sweet."

"Just think. Seven more months." Riz's smile crinkled at the edges. "Seven months before you turn 21, and become a Companion."

"Oh, Inara, it's so exciting," Lucinda's friend Bo joined in. "You'll surely be offered a position in one of the luxury resorts, and you'll have so many proposals, you'll have to hire someone to help you sort through them."

"Maybe you'll work somewhere close to Nandi," Riz put in. "The two of you can visit Madrassa all the time, and tell us your client stories."

Inara's smile faltered.

Nandi had graduated the year before, and worked in the Luguan establishment, on the other side of the planet. She had promised Inara she would come back often. But Companion life was busier than anticipated, or so Inara sensed, from the handful of brief waves they'd exchanged at first. Shortly after, Nandi had stopped responding. Weeks had turned into months, without a word from her.

Inara took a breath, and recomposed her smile. "Of course I'll visit, _mèi mèi_ ," she said to Riz. "But I have to pass my exams, first."

She forced herself to eat at least a few spoonfuls of porridge, as the voices around her bubbled on. It was normal, surely: the uncertainty, the tightness in her chest. Inara had no reason to be unhappy.

Surely, that was enough.

/*/*\\*\

Steam suffused the room. The air pressed close, warming Inara's cheeks. She looked down at the table spread with her materials. She lifted her chin, and checked her posture in the silhouette cast onto the canvas screen in front of her.

At the sound of footsteps in the room beyond, Inara picked up the first tray. It shook in her hands, its contents knocking together.

The trill of a bell called her forward. She stepped out from behind the screen.

Deep scarlet fabric covered the walls, casting a sunrise glow over the low cushioned seat and wooden table. Inara tried not to look for any mistakes. She had arranged the room beforehand, and couldn't move anything now. She set the tray onto the table, and rose, wiping her palms on the slick satin fabric of her dress.

Two women sat in the corner of the room. Inara felt their eyes on her, but she was forbidden from acknowledging their presence. Out of the corner of her eye, Inara recognized the form, and intricate hairstyle, of Priestess Song.

Inara forced a steady breath, and faced the door.

Her 'client' entered the room. A young woman, no doubt a Companion herself, enlisted by the House for the purpose of proctoring exams. Inara almost smiled in welcome, and to help soothe her own nerves, but stopped just in time. _Solemnity,_ she reminded herself, and schooled her expression.

Inara and her client bowed to one another, deeply and silently. Inara moved her arm, _as if painting a broad stroke,_ to indicate the chair, where the woman took her seat. Inara knelt on the mat, opposite the table from her client, and set to work.

From the clay pot, Inara poured warm water over a cloth, folded inside a dish. She presented the cloth to her client, who used it to wipe her face. It left a sheen of moisture on her skin.

The client held out her hands, and Inara took the cloth, to moisten and cleanse the woman's palms and fingers. It was her favorite part of the ceremony, and Inara took her time. She paused, holding the woman's fingers in hers, and smiled up at her.

"You have the loveliest hands."

Her client said nothing, but smiled in return, ducking her eyes.

Inara replaced the cloth in the bowl and stood up, taking the tray with her behind the screen. A larger, more ceremonial clay pot had to be filled with water, and heated over coals in the grate set into the wall, while the second tray was prepared.

Inara bit her lip, and re-adjusted the sash around her waist. She was unused to the elaborate dress, which Companions-in-training didn't start wearing until their examination period. At last, the water was ready. Inara settled the pot into place, and picked up the tray.

The weight of the water and ceremonial stoneware tugged at her arms. Inara kept her back straight, but not tensed. In no way could she show any sign of exertion or effort. She set the tray down, with a slight rattle.

Inara liked to think of the tea-making, or _chanoyu,_ as a dance. It could be adequately carried out as a series of steps, but what made it beautiful was the rhythm _._ An internal flow, held within her own muscles, that turned mere movement into melody. Her hands moved between the dish of matcha powder, to the brewing vessel, then to the heavy pot of water. She lifted it as if it weighed nothing, a trick requiring balance and care. The water trickled through the air, like music, to fill the pot.

She swirled the pot, and used a small whisk to mix the tea. Once it had turned a vibrant, opaque spring green, she poured the tea into the serving bowl.

Inara held up the bowl to her client, without meeting the woman's eyes, a show of deference. The client drank a mouthful, without betraying any appreciation, and returned the bowl to Inara. She wiped its edge clean with the designated cloth, and drank from it herself.

Another bow concluded the ceremony. Behind her, one of the exam proctors rang the bell again, signaling the end of the exam. Every ounce of tension drained from Inara's limbs, leaving her limp and exhausted.

She stood up, to face her evaluators. The _chanoyu_ instructor, Madam Tao, beamed at Inara, clutching her evaluation board to her chest. Priestess Song didn't look up from her own, still writing. When she did lift her gaze to Inara's, she remained cool and unreadable.

Madam Tao's smile opened. "Well done, Inara," she burst. "Beautiful. Your technique was crisp at the edges, yet fluid. It was a joy to watch."

"Thank you, Madam," said Inara, and looked to Priestess Song.

She arched a slender brow. "I must agree with Madam Tao. Your _chanoyu_ was the best I've seen in quite a while. Clearly, your disciplined practice has served you well."

Inara held back a smile. She started to thank her, then shut her mouth, as the Priestess went on, "Unfortunately, I did not see that discipline reflected in what is perhaps the most crucial piece of this ritual: your interactions with your client."

Inara blinked. Her hands tightened at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She held her breath.

"You broke the silence required for this ceremony, in order to compliment your client's hands. I must say, I did not expect such an immature mistake from you." Her eyes were sharp, locked on Inara's. "Do you know why silence is a part of our ritual?"

Inara nodded. "It is to honor the initial distance between Client and Companion. The distance is not closed until we drink from the same bowl."

"Exactly," said Priestess Song. "Furthermore, it helps to establish an atmosphere of formality and respect. When you cleanse your client's hands, you must not treat her as you would a close friend. She is a guest of honor in a hallowed space."

Inara's throat filled with stones. "Yes, Priestess."

Priestess Song took the evaluation board from Madam Tao, holding it next to her own. Mouth pinched, she hesitated, and made several more marks.

A long silence sank into the air. It seemed to warp the floor beneath them, making it difficult for Inara to stay upright. She braced herself for the worst.

"Inara Serra, prospective Companion of the House Madrassa, your performance in this examination has earned a grade of 'fair.'" The Priestess looked up to Inara. "Your next examination will take place in one month's time."

Inara exhaled. She could have melted with relief. She had to shut her eyes a moment, with the reverence of prayer, before she opened them again.

There was something else, small yet persistent, itching in her throat. She swallowed it away. She bowed to Madam Tao, her 'client,' then Priestess Song. _It's over,_ she thought. _I passed._

But passing could not be enough, not for the daughter of Kalindi Serra. Inara knew that her performance in the seven exams to come must be perfect.

/*/*\\*\

"Hello, darling. So sorry I'm late."

Inara felt a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up from the light-paper news bulletin she'd been reading, to watch her father move around the couch, where she'd curled up to await his arrival.

His smile pressed wrinkles around his eyes. "Ah, Inara. You are a tender ray of light in this bottomless pit of a week."

"Hello, _Bàba_." Inara stood, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, the same way she did every Sunday afternoon, on every weekly visit for the past five years. Before that, Inara had visited her father for an hour every day, but training and study at the House Madrassa demanded to come first. Her father understood, of course.

She glanced down at his grey suit, creased around the elbows and knees, and deduced that he'd spent the morning in meetings in Sihnon's capital. She lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Are you working seven days a week again?"

His eyes dimmed, though he didn't stop smiling. "Don't you worry about me."

"Of course I worry." Inara pursed her lips. "I know you're running for Chancellor this Session, but you must let yourself rest at least _one_ day a week."

"Yes, yes. Wise words." Her father removed his jacket, taking it over to the rack by the door. "I'll ring for tea, then I want to hear all about your first exam."

Inara chewed her lower lip, watching him move to the service panel on the wall, where he pushed the button for the maid. The light-paper began to crumple in Inara's grip. She tapped the corner, to halt the scrolling text, and set it aside.

"Now, then." Her father settled into his reclining chair, across from her, and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Well, I passed," Inara said lightly.

Her father chuckled. "Of course you passed, I'm sure you did better than that. Don't be modest, now. What was your grade?"

Inara swallowed. "It was 'fair.'"

His chin jerked back in surprise. "Only 'fair? What happened?"

Inara ducked her eyes, playing with the hem of her tunic. It had been such a relief to take off the ceremonial dress, and change back into the plain linen shirt and pants worn by all Companions-in-training. But it took only an instant for the humiliation of the exam to flood back to her, warming her cheeks.

She told him what had happened.

"Oh _,_ it was so stupid of me." She shook her head. "Even the Priestess called it an immature mistake. I only wanted to break the tension of the room, make my client feel more at ease. It felt like the right thing to do."

Her father moved to sit on the couch beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. The maid, Yawen, came in with the tea. He gestured for her to set it on the table, and go back the way she'd come. Inara managed to give the woman a smile in greeting, which Yawen returned, before she slipped out of the room.

"My dear, you possess a marvelous instinct for making people feel at ease. You always have." Inara's father smiled down at her. "I remember one occasion, just before my first Elections cycle. Let's see… you must have been eight." He chuckled under his breath. "I was a nervous wreck, of course. And you put your little hand around mine, and you told me I was already everything I needed to be. Because I was smart, and loving, and I was your father."

Inara had to laugh a little, imagining her younger self, who no doubt had a very dim understanding of all that was at stake in Alliance Parliament Elections.

"You are not stupid, nor are you immature." Her father picked up a cup of tea, handing it to Inara, and took one for himself. "That said, I have to agree with Priestess Song about the importance of respecting the ritual." He smirked. "And you know how rare it is that I should agree with that woman on anything."

Inara looked down, into her cup. "Yes, but…"

Her father raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not sure if _I_ agree." She let out a heavy breath. "Not entirely."

He tilted his head, waiting.

"I know that the tea ceremony comes from thousands of years of tradition, from the art of the Geisha on Earth-that-Was. I agree it's important to make the client feel honored." Inara barely realized what she wanted to say, before it was spilling out of her mouth. "But it's intimidating," she blurted. "The silence, the straight faces. It feels so unnatural, and stiff." She looked to her father. "It would be much better if Companions could tailor the ceremony to each client. Make comments and compliments as we see fit. It would be more intimate, and spontaneous, and real."

"Intimacy and spontaneity have their place in each session," said her father, thoughtful. "Just as formality and silence do, as well."

"But what if formality and silence make the client uncomfortable?"

Her father took a sip of tea. "I'm not trained in this art, nor am I an expert on Companions. Only a man who has contracted with them for many years." He smiled. "I think it's safe to say that none of your clients will be made uncomfortable by the tea ceremony, Inara. They'll be expecting it."

"How can you know that?"

"Because, darling, they will all be trained just as you have been. They've grown up in the same world. They appreciate formality, and silence, and having the discipline to take things slowly, because these are what separate us from the vast majority of uncultured people. Our rituals and traditions make us who we are."

Inara frowned, swirling her tea.

Her father rubbed her back, just below her shoulders, the way he'd soothed her since she was small. "Your talents, coupled with my connections, guarantee a position in any one of the Alliance-protected Companion establishments. You will never come across a client who hasn't seen a tea ceremony before, I can promise you that."

"Alright, but let's suppose I decide to contract independently instead. I might find myself in a more… disconnected area of the Universe, and-"

She stopped. Her father had gone rigid. His hand fell from her shoulder, the other tightening around his teacup.

"What did you say?"

Inara hesitated, watching the line of his mouth. His jaw was clenched.

"I said, if I decide to contract independently-"

"You can't possibly be considering that." His voice could have pierced steel.

" _Bàba_ ," Inara breathed out, faintly. "It's a hypothetical situation. I was making a point."

He turned his eyes on hers. They glowed, a brighter, more golden brown than her own. "You must promise me you aren't thinking about contracting independently."

She furrowed her brow. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because, it-" Her father stood up. "It simply isn't _done._ Not by Companions with your potential. You wouldn't take a talent like yours, and- just throw it into the void." He gestured with his cup. Tea sloshed out, splattering the white carpet.

Inara tensed. "My mother contracted independently." The words were razor-lined. "And she was one of the most talented Companions to ever graduate House Madrassa."

Her father glared at the spilled tea, nostrils flared. Inara could hear his breath. "Yes," he said at last. "Kalindi decided to contract on her own after we- after our arrangement dissolved." His voice grew tenuous. "That decision was her last."

Inara's eyes filled with heat. "It was a rare disease. For all we know she caught it here on Sihnon-"

"No, Inara," he snapped. "She didn't. Your mother chose to leave the Core and fly off God-knows-where, and that's the reason she..." He choked on the words.

 _The reason she's dead._ Inara kept silent. Her fists bunched in her lap, fingernails biting little crescents into her palms. She shouldn't have brought her mother into it. Not when she knew so well the wound that was Kalindi's name, re-opened every time it was spoken aloud.

Her father swallowed, and pulled his shoulders back. "The Universe is a dangerous place. Far more now than it was then." He ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "I wish disease were the worst of it."

Inara looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

The silence thickened a moment. At last, he met Inara's eyes. "Do you know why I'm running for Chancellor?" he asked, quiet.

Inara shook her head.

"Heading the Military Affairs Council is an immense responsibility." He paced a few steps away to set down his cup, with a rattle. "At the end of the day, it would be up to me to stop those who would let chaos rule the Universe." Heat licked the edges of his voice. "You have no idea what kind of people are out there, Inara, the people I have to think about every day. They would love nothing better than to destroy you, simply because of your birthright."

His shoulders slumped, as the anger went out of him. He finished, soft, "Because of the symbol you wear on your ear."

Inara's hand went to her left earlobe. She touched the golden earring her father had given her for her twelfth birthday, the day her Companion training had begun. It was simple yet elegant, a small disc adorned with six tiny stars, arranged in the same pattern as on the Union of Allied Planets' flag.

She dropped her hand to her lap. "Who are these people?"

Inara's father sat down again, and lifted a hand to rub his temple. "They call themselves Independents. You've heard the name, I'm sure."

Inara nodded. "We discuss current events in our lectures. They're a group of political dissidents, aren't they?"

Her father chuckled, wry and weary. "That's one way of putting it."

Inara leaned closer, quieting her breath, to listen. Her father rarely talked about his work. He preferred to focus on her, when she visited.

He stared into the middle distance. "First, they refused to pay taxes. Now, they've grown openly hostile towards peacekeeping forces." The words seemed to wear down his voice. "There were over thirty bomb attacks on Alliance compounds in this past week alone."

Inara lifted a hand to his shoulder. "Oh, _Bàba_ …"

He turned to her, lines etched around his eyes. "I just want to keep you safe," he murmured. "If you're employed by an Alliance establishment, here on Sihnon, you'll be protected."

"Of course." Inara swallowed. "You're right. I don't know anything of the Universe, outside the Core." _And it seems I never will._

Her father smiled. "My _bǎo wù."_ He traced her cheek with his hand."You are so precious to me. You know that, don't you?"

Inara returned his smile, as best she could. "I know." She set her tea aside, and took his hand in both of hers. "And you are my loving, smart father. Who works too much, and needs to relax."

"I can't argue with you there."

Inara patted his hand. "Why don't we take a walk around the grounds, before I have to go back to the House? It's so beautiful and green outside, this time of year."

The door to the parlor swung open. Her father's assistant appeared, a small, grey-haired man with a nervous mouth.

"Councilor, there is a wave for you. From Mr. Claybrook."

"I'll take it in here." Her father stood. "Thank you, Meng."

The man bowed, and ducked out of sight.

"I'm sorry, darling." Her father grimaced. "New campaign advisor. There's so much to be done…"

"It's fine." Inara waved a hand, as she stood up. "I'll walk by myself today, and next week we'll go together."

"I'll be looking forward to it." He gave her a kiss on the forehead. She could sense him drifting, already half-absorbed in thoughts above her head, back to his work.

Just before the door closed behind her, Inara heard her father log into his home computer by voice recognition.

The computer prompted him, "Name?"

"Solomon Zhi," he answered.

* * *

translations:

 _Aiya_ \- interjection to express shock, regret, or distress

 _Kàn zài lǎotiānyé de miàn shàng_ \- For heaven's sake

 _mèi mèi_ \- little sister

 _Bàba_ \- Papa, Daddy

 _bǎo wù_ \- treasure, treasured one

* * *

*Dun dun dun!* Hah, who am I kidding, no doubt you saw that coming a mile off. You've probably also guessed that the next chapter will include a very... memorable first meeting between two certain characters. Not naming any names. I can't wait to post it, but first I must implore you - if you've read this far, please tell me your impressions in that beautiful little box down below! Whatever you have to say, I want to hear it, be it good, bad, ugly or grotesque. There are surprisingly few specifics about Companion training on the wikia, so I did what research I could, and pulled bits from geisha and Zen Buddhist traditions, but I'd love to hear how you think I did with House Madrassa.

The chapters will be shorter from here on out (promise!) and looks like I'll be posting on Wednesdays. Kind of a random update day, but "day" is a vestigial mode of time measurement based on solar cycles, so... Anyway. ;) We shall meet again in Chapter 3! *salutes*


	3. Intrusion

Greetings on this very fine Wednesday (or whatever day of the week you might be reading this.) This chapter sparks what I consider to be the real story, so I'll cut to the chase and let you get to reading it!

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

INTRUSION

Bucket in hand, Mal trudged up the sloping green hillside toward the Councilor's mansion, grumbling under his breath.

His second day on the job, and already he wanted to throttle the head groundskeeper. The man was his supervisor, so it would be ill-advised, but Mal could fantasize.

He had a few choice words for the stable hand before him, too. What kind of _rén zhā_ would leave a large, shallow hole, almost a meter wide, right out in the pasture?

Mal had found it that morning, after rising at dawn to walk the fields and get the lay of the land. It was good to get out in the grass and dirt, early enough that sleep still sat heavy on his shoulders. A familiar task, on this planet where _everything_ was different.

Different didn't even cover it. Landing in Lu'Weng, the capital city, Mal felt as if he'd stepped into a fever dream. From the red-tinged sky all the way down, colors shone brighter, more vivid. Artificial lights blinded him at every turn. People dressed strangely; crowds of Buddhists in bright saffron robes, businessmen in asymmetrical suits. Mal saw what he could've sworn was a dress made of lettuce, for _sale_. The model had blinked at him, straight-faced, from inside her glass cage.

Anders had laughed at Mal's slack-jawed awe. It was his first time off Shadow himself, but he never missed an opportunity to laugh at Mal. Good thing he'd only have to put up with the _hùndàn_ at his debriefings, which would be infrequent, for caution's sake.

Sihnon's countryside was even stranger than its metropolis. Jagged mountains sliced through the land, with buildings perched at dizzying altitudes. Man-made plains served to cradle sprawling estates, patches of green carved into the rock. Though 'patch' was perhaps too slight a word to be applied to Zhi's property, which neared the size of Mal's hometown. The day before, when the groundskeeper had given Mal a tour, they'd had to ride in a flying mule in order to cover it all.

The groundskeeper, Talmai Davis, stood with a forward lilt, like a poorly-erected fence post, tall and round-shouldered. He'd only been there a month or two himself, but his dead eyes gave the impression he'd seen everything. He betrayed no emotion, not even when Mal had called the man down to inform him of the hole in the field.

With as much urgency as he could convey, short of yelling, Mal had explained it needed to be filled. As soon as possible. _As in, yesterday._ Davis proceeded to tell Mal off for waking him up, and said that he'd get someone out there to fill it by the end of the week.

Mal could hardly believe it. He was still fuming, hours later, after he'd finished the rest of his chores in the stables, and set out to solve the problem himself. He composed a rant in his head as he walked, what he wished he'd said to his supervisor. _Maybe them fancified horses are a dime a dozen here on Sihnon, but I'll be damned if any horse breaks its leg in a hole on_ my _watch._

Not to mention the fact that if it did happen, he would likely be fired, and his mission would be over before it had even begun.

Mal found the garden he was looking for, one of about seven Davis had pointed out on the tour. It stretched along the left side of the mansion, complete with fountains, benches and a few baffling sculptures.

The epithet of 'garden' was being awfully generous, Mal thought. He couldn't see a single edible plant, nor many plants at all. Most of it was covered in rocks. Like gravel, but smooth and pretty, arranged in a design to suggest ripples on water. Mal picked up a handful and frowned. Three buckets would be enough to fill the hole, if he covered the top with straw. Not ideal, but it was the best he could do.

He dropped into a crouch at the edge of the garden, where the rocks met the lawn, and started scooping them up by the fistful. They smacked the bottom of the bucket with a clatter.

A hiss sliced through the noise. Mal lifted his head. At that same moment, a wave of water hit the back of his neck, and didn't stop coming, soaking his collar in the second it took for him to drop the bucket and turn around.

A sprinkler head had reared up out of the lawn, going about its task with a high, arcing spray that shot out on all sides.

"What the _gǒu cāo de xī niú guī sūnzi_ -" Mal sputtered, lifting his hands to block his face. He stumbled back, out of reach of the sprinkler, and his foot landed in the bucket. He kept moving out of sheer backward momentum, until he lost his balance altogether.

The rocks did not make for a soft landing.

Mal growled through clenched teeth, " _Son_ of a-"

"Stop right where you are."

Mal scrabbled in the rocks as he turned around, dragging the bucket along with him, its handle looped around his ankle. He blinked, shading his eyes, to see who had spoken.

A young woman stood a safe distance away from him. Mal couldn't see her face too well in the glare of the sun. A mane of thick, black curls circled her head, laced with golden light. A glow traced her slender arms, and finely-tailored tunic. She wielded a stick with both hands, like a sword.

Mal might have laughed, but he knew he looked at least twice as ridiculous himself.

"You should know we do not tolerate trespassers. I've called the groundskeeper." She tossed her head, to indicate the service panel on a low stone wall at the opposite end of the garden. "He'll be here any moment."

"You _called the-_ " Mal scrambled to his feet. He kicked the bucket off his foot, and set his jaw, staring down the Core-worlder. He jabbed a finger toward the service panel. "Didja happen to turn on the sprinklers, too?"

She scoffed, mouth falling open. "I don't have to answer to _you."_

"Oh, no, Miss." Mal half-rolled his eyes. "'Course not. Naturally, you assume I'm here to steal your precious rocks. You couldn't have just _asked_ me what I was doin'."

The girl blinked, mouth still open, staring at Mal. At last, she shut her mouth, and dropped the stick. She crossed her arms.

"Alright, then." Her eyebrows arched. "What were you doing?"

"Well, Miss, I'm Councilor Zhi's new stable hand. It's my job to care for those horses of his. But this mornin', I found a hole out in the middle of their pasture. Know what can happen if a horse sticks her pretty leg down a hole?"

The girl stared at him, mouth pursed.

"She'll break it," Mal said grimly. "And a horse with a broken leg is a dead horse." He threw out a hand, toward the bucket. "So I came up here to get a couple buckets of rocks, so I can fill up that hole. The horses keep their legs, and I keep my job."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Mal sensed it would be proper, for someone of his station, to avert his gaze. But he kept his eyes even with the girl's. Standing upright, and not so blinded by the sun, Mal could see her face. Her brows were dark, furrowed over darker eyes, which glinted with a heat he felt on his skin.

"I'm assuming this is your first job," she said at last. Her Core diction was so sharp, Mal wondered if she ever cut her tongue on it. "Or your first job on Sihnon, at least."

Mal tilted his head, with a smile of barely-contained contempt.

She matched it ounce for ounce. "I suggest you learn a bit more about the landscape here, before you cart off buckets of stones from your employer's Zen garden. That is, if you'd like to keep your job."

Mal opened his mouth, to thank her for the advice, but he was interrupted by Talmai Davis, stomping toward them. The man's face had cracked at last, into a scowl. Mal decided he liked the blank expression better.

"What the _hell_ -" He got close enough to see the girl, and almost fell over. "Hel _-_ Hello, Miss- uh, forgive me, Miss…"

"Miss Serra. I'm the one who called you, groundskeeper." The girl shot Mal a glance, before she added, "But it was a mistake."

"What happened?" Davis looked down at the rocks in disarray, the discarded bucket, and lifted his eyes to glare at Mal. "What have you done?"

"He did nothing wrong," the girl cut in, before Mal could defend himself. He shot her a look. If she noticed, she didn't show it. She continued to address Davis in a smooth, entitled voice that made the hairs on Mal's neck bristle.

"I wanted to rearrange the stones in the garden, and I asked him to help me. The fountains were in our way, as you can see," she gestured to Mal's dripping shirt, "so I tried to turn them off, and called you by mistake."

She shook her head in self-deprecation, and flashed Davis a dazzling smile. Mal hated when people said that of smiles, but in this case it applied. He wasn't even the recipient, and he was almost dazzled by it himself.

"Sorry to hear you were having trouble. Anything I can do to help, so Wesley can get back to the stables?" Davis pointed the last bit at Mal.

"No, thank you," said the girl. "I must be going, actually."

"Yes, Miss Serra." The groundskeeper gave her a clumsy bow. "Again, I apologize…"

"No need." Another smile, serene and gracious, and this one she lifted to Mal, as if granting him some kind of honor. "Thank you for all your help, Wesley."

He nodded gruffly. If Miss Serra expected him to fall all over himself with gratitude that she lied to his supervisor on his behalf, she could forget it. He watched her walk away, toward the front drive, where a sleek chromium land speeder waited for her. Mal wondered where she was going.

Davis grunted. Mal snapped his eyes back to him.

"Listen up." The man snatched the bucket from the ground, and shoved it into Mal's arms. "I don't know how you ended all the way up here, but let me make this clear: you are the stable hand. You work in the stables. You don't leave the stables unless I ask you to. Got that?"

"Got it." Mal nodded. "But say, sir… This garden has given me an idea." He lifted the bucket. "What if I used stones to fill that hole out in the field? I could do it myself, that way you won't have to worry about it."

Davis stared at him, settling back into his dead mask. "Fine. But not these. You can get some out of the gardener's supply, if you ask him." He pointed to a large, well-furnished shed some ways beyond the mansion. "He should be there."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be on my way, then." Mal grinned. "Have a nice day!"

He left Davis with his hands on his hips, staring after Mal, shaking his head.

Mal's smile lasted all of two seconds, before slipping into a grimace.

That girl, _Miss Serra,_ had brought him within an inch of disaster. With her stupid stick, prepared to defend herself against him. She'd almost gotten Mal fired, then plucked him back from the edge, with the power of her fine clothes and elocution. Mal's neck grew hot when he thought about it.

 _Who is she, anyway?_ He shook his head. It didn't matter. Mal knew a _zǒugǒu_ when he saw one. Alliance-bred and fed, without a doubt. Just because she'd extended herself to protect him, for whatever reason, didn't mean he owed her a single moment of consideration.

The gardener's shed loomed ahead, and Mal gripped the bucket handle, reminded of his purpose. _Fill the hole, keep the job, stick to your mission._ He shoved the girl, smile and all, out of his mind.

* * *

translations:

 _rén zhā_ \- useless person, human garbage

 _hùndàn -_ prick, a**hole

 _gǒu cāo de xī niú guī sūnzi_ \- dog-f*cking, cow-sucking, bastard son of a turtle

 _zǒugǒu_ \- lapdog (as in, someone who flatters/lives to please those in power)

* * *

In case you couldn't tell, I'm a big fan of awkward meet-cutes, so... that's what our two sweethearts got. I would be thrilled to hear any impressions of Mal and Inara's first encounter, or of the story in general. Even if you only have time for one or two words, it would mean the world to me! Constructive criticism is especially welcome.

I hope to see you in the next chapter. Until then, stay awesome!


	4. Curiosity

Well, hello hello! First off, I must apologize for that unplanned hiatus. I got waylaid with Real Life and other projects, and I also kind of lost my nerve. But I'm over it (I think) and now I'm back! I want to thank anyone who's reading this, and give a huge virtual hug to those who've shown their support for this little story so far. It means so much more than you know. And thanks to **Mark** of the most recent guest review: your words stung a little, but dang if they weren't motivating. I can assure you that I _do_ plan to see this story through. I may have stepped away for a moment, but never once did I think of abandoning it.

With that, I'm very pleased to present Chapter 4.

Soundtrack \- **Inara's Theme** : "Flowers [feat. Nori]" by In Love With a Ghost, _Let's Go - EP (2017)_

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

CURIOSITY

 _03 - 06 - 2506_

"What do you suppose boys are _really_ like?"

It took Inara a moment to register the question, and pull away from her human anatomy text. She straightened up, with a frown.

Inara and Riz sat sat beside each other on their favorite perch: the wide, cushioned windowsill in Inara's room. Riz had turned toward the sun-dappled afternoon, dangling her legs out the open window. Inara faced the other direction, her lap covered with light-paper and pages of hand-written notes.

Riz held a lock of her hair up to the sun, where it shone gold. "Boys our age, I mean."

"What are you talking about?" It came out shorter than Inara intended. "We've met plenty of boys, at the Functions."

"The Functions." Riz scoffed. "Those aren't real life, Inara. There are Chaperones around every pillar, and if you try to talk to any of the boys, just talk to them, they go all red, and clam up."

Inara couldn't disagree. Companions-in-training went into the Functions eager to flex their conversation skills and, yes, to interact with living, breathing young men. They were often disappointed. The sons of Sihnon's wealthiest families might be brilliant and charming under normal circumstances, but when placed next to a future Companion, they seemed to forget their own names.

It was likely because they were dwelling on the fact that they would contract with these women, as clients, in a few years' time.

Inara set aside her tablet. "So, you want to know what boys are like when we're not there to intimidate them?"

"Yes." Riz leaned on the word, palms pressed into her thighs. Inara had to smile.

Not all Companions serviced men, and most serviced all genders, but in either case, curiosity was natural. Men of any age weren't allowed inside most Training Houses, Madrassa included. Even Houses for male Companions barred entrance to those who weren't training or teaching there.

Riz often complained about their sequestered lifestyle. Inara didn't mind it, really. She didn't even think about it, most of the time.

But that was before she'd had a face-to-face, un-Chaperoned interaction with a flesh-and-blood boy.

"I think we might be better off not knowing," she said, voice light.

Riz raised an eyebrow at her. _"You_ think we can learn everything we need to know from a lecture. But there's nothing like first-hand experience, if you ask me." She made a fist, and tapped it against her knee. "If only we could see what boys are like around normal girls." Her eyes brightened, snapping to Inara's. "We could go undercover."

Inara shook her head, with a laugh. "Riz."

"I'm serious." Riz lifted one leg onto the windowsill, turning toward her. "We could sneak out one night, and-"

"Get caught by the Priestess, who would turn us into stone sculptures with one glare," Inara finished.

Riz smirked. "It'd be worth it."

"I'm not so sure about that." Inara picked up her tablet again, and turned it on, trying to direct her focus back to her impending Holistic Physiology exam.

Her eyes scanned the text without absorbing a single word. All she could see was her father's stable boy, hair dripping water over his brow, standing up to face her. The way he'd called her _"Miss,"_ shaping the title into an insult on his tongue.

To be fair, she had turned the sprinklers on him. She'd done it to catch him off guard, give her a chance to cut off his escape. Inara blushed, to imagine how she must have looked, brandishing a stick against the boy.

Inara had managed two pages before Riz tipped her eyes over the top of her animated graphic novel, and broke the quiet.

"Don't you have to meet with the Priestess this afternoon?"

Inara sprang to her feet, notes and tablet tumbling off her lap.

" _Aiya,"_ she breathed. "I completely forgot."

She scrambled to pull her slippers onto her feet, throwing a robe over her shoulders, to wrap around her plain camisole. Riz looked on, amused, as Inara flew to her mirror, and winced.

" _Zhè shì shén me,"_ she muttered. She tugged her unruly curls into a bun, securing it with a pair of jade hair sticks.

"There's something going on with you." Riz tilted her head. "You've been so out of orbit, this whole week."

"Have I?" Inara smoothed the silk robe across her chest, knotting it around her waist.

"If you weren't about to be late, I'd make you sit down right now, and tell me what's wrong."

Inara clasped her friend's hand, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

"There's nothing to tell." She smiled through the pang that tore into her stomach. "I'm fine."

Riz pursed her coral lips, skeptical, but let Inara go, and returned to her light-paper comic. Inara slipped into the corridor, with a deep breath.

She let her mind be contained by the walls around her, and picked up her feet to hurry down the hall.

/*/*\\*\

"How have you been?" A cup of toasted rice green tea accompanied Priestess Song's question.

Inara accepted the cup with a smile. "Very well, thank you."

The Priestess arched her brow. "I wasn't asking as a pleasantry. Try again."

Inara breathed in the rising steam, and stalled, eyes brushing over the room.

Priestess Song had chosen minimal décor for her private quarters, limiting the furniture to floor cushions and a low tea table. Her parlor distinguished itself from the rest of the house, with its rich ornamentation and dark, warm hues. Min preferred a subtler palette of spring green, greys and browns. The room had always calmed Inara, since before she had the words to express it.

She sighed. "I'm not sure how to answer, if I'm honest."

"It's always a good idea to be honest."

 _Always?_ Inara dropped her eyes to her lap.

" _Qīn ài de,_ what's troubling you?"

Inara crossed an arm over her chest, to rub her shoulder. She opened her mouth, only to close it again.

"The examination period is a difficult time," said Priestess Song, with a knowing nod. "Difficult, and emotional, for any Companion-in-training. But especially for you, I think."

Inara ducked her eyes to her cup. Her throat cinched, in anticipation.

"You were born in this House. You grew up here. It's only natural that you have reservations about leaving." A smile curved Min's voice. "Madrassa has become a part of you, and it seems impossible to imagine yourself anywhere else. I felt the same way."

Inara looked up. "You trained here," she said, remembering. _With my mother._

"Yes." Min's eyes warmed. "And I've never been able to keep away for long. I contracted on a pleasure ship for just two years before I returned, to serve as Apprentice to the former Priestess. I was 25 when I stepped into the position myself."

"Have you ever-" Inara paused, "…wished you'd chosen a different path?"

"Never." The Priestess shook her head. "It has been difficult. More difficult than I ever imagined, but infinitely more rewarding, as well. To run Madrassa, and help each trainee find her place here. It's not a responsibility I take lightly, which is why I've devoted much thought as to whom I will train to replace me."

Inara knit her brow. "You're retiring?"

"This is my 20th year. Each Priestess remains in the position for no more than 25. Within the last five years, she must allow at least two for the training of an Apprentice to succeed her."

Inara held Min's eyes. _An Apprentice._ The word warmed her throat, cradled there.

"I'm telling you this, Inara, because I want to offer the Apprenticeship to you."

Inara's pulse lashed her wrists. Her hands locked around her tea cup. She stared back at the Priestess, mind swept clean of words.

Min lifted a hand. "Such an offer wouldn't be made until your graduation ceremony. You have plenty of time to consider how you'll respond. However." She laid the word down, firm. "This represents a momentous commitment, for the both of us. If you want this, you'll have to prove it. To do that you must watch, learn, and show me what you're capable of. You'll spend hours a day as my shadow, several times a week, for the next seven months. That's in addition to your examinations. Are you willing to take that on?"

"Yes." It flushed her to the fingertips, free of hesitation. She only faltered the moment after, a hitch in her breath. "But why me?"

"I see all the necessary qualities in you. Patience, compassion, focus. But most importantly, I see your love for this House." Min's voice flickered, lit from within. "To be Priestess means to love Madrassa more than anything else. More than success, more than fame, more than all of the material rewards your friends and your father may be encouraging you to pursue."

Inara swallowed. No doubt Solomon would have something to say about his daughter following in the footsteps of Min Song, pursuing the Priestesshood, instead of a placement in a Companion establishment.

She smiled. "I'm honored by your consideration, Priestess. I will strive to prove myself worthy of it."

"Wonderful." Min smiled in return. "Now, let me present your first lesson in how a Priestess maintains her House. It has to do with honesty." She lifted the teapot, and poured them both another cup. "As you know, I hold weekly meetings with each trainee in the last months leading up to her graduation. To air her doubts, her dreams, her difficulties. There are no secrets, and no subject is off-limits. In that vein, we must discuss what happened last Sunday."

Inara inhaled a sip of tea down her windpipe. Her eyes widened, as she muffled a cough into her hand. "What… what do you mean?"

"I imagine you feel I was unduly harsh with you."

 _The tea ceremony exam._ Inara let out a breath. She shook her head. "No, not at all-"

"As a matter of fact, I was," Min interrupted. "And I will continue to be. For your own sake." She set down her tea cup, eyes levelling to Inara's. "If you were to make a mistake like that in your final evaluation, the Guild would not hesitate to dismiss you then and there. They will be infinitely stricter with you."

Inara bit the inside of her lip. "Because of my mother?" she asked, feather-light.

"In a way, yes. Not because of Kalindi herself, but because you are a _bǎo wù._ A child of a Companion, in the eyes of the Guild, has an unfair advantage over other trainees. They adjust their evaluation rubric accordingly."

"Of course." Inara ducked her eyes. "I'm grateful to you, for not allowing my mistake to go unremarked." She looked back up, and took in a breath. "I won't disappoint you again."

Priestess Song extended her hands across the table. Inara set aside her tea cup, and placed her own in the woman's cool, gentle hold.

"Listen to me." Min squeezed Inara's fingers. "You mustn't let the pressure of these coming months overpower you."

Inara nodded.

"It's unfortunate that your exam period coincides with the Election Session. Your father is under enormous stress, in the race for the Chancellor seat. Whatever he may be saying about your future, take it with a grain of rice." Min's mouth pinched tight. "Remember, he is an outsider. He doesn't understand our world as well as he thinks he does."

"Yes, Priestess." Inara had learned long ago not to defend her father to Min, or vice versa. The two didn't see eye to eye. It was a waste of breath to try and reconcile them.

The Priestess released Inara's hands, but not her eyes. "I sense that something happened, during your last visit. Would you like to talk about it?"

Inara held her breath. She did, more than anything. _But honesty is not always a good idea._

"I behaved in a manner that I regret," she said at last. No doubt, Min thought this referred to an argument with her father. Inara wasn't going to correct her. "I took out my frustration on someone who did nothing to cause it. He certainly wasn't without fault," she added, "but he didn't deserve to be treated that way."

Min hummed in thought. "It sounds as if the issue is unresolved."

"Maybe. But I don't think he wants me to-" _Speak to him, ever again, probably._ "Dredge the matter up," Inara finished.

"Never assume what someone else is thinking. You've been trained to perceive the emotions of others, and to read body language as fluently as Chinese or English. But you have not yet advanced to the level of mind-reading." Her lips curled, then fell serious. "All you know is that you feel you did wrong by this person. All you can control is how you remedy that wrong."

"What should I do?" Inara asked, even as the answer crept up her neck.

"Apologize." The Priestess confirmed it. "Whatever happens after that is up to him, but he won't begrudge you a sincere apology."

Inara thought of the stable boy's eyes, keen and cold, glaring at her. _He_ _might._

But she left Min's parlor with one certainty, rooting down through her heels. The following day, after visiting her father, Inara was going to find the boy with the bucket, and set things right.

* * *

translations:

 _Zhè shì shén me_ \- What [the heck] is this (very mild exclamation)

 _Qīn ài de_ \- My dear

* * *

They drink a lot of tea in House Madrassa. They're a very well-hydrated bunch. Before you take off, I would so appreciate a word or two of response to this chapter. What are your impressions of Inara's relationship with the Priestess? I'm curious to hear how it comes off. And I'd be especially grateful for any constructive criticism you might have to offer.

So, does Inara manage to 'set things right' with the stable boy? *wink* You'll just have to stay tuned to find out - I'll be back next Wednesday with Chapter 5 (pinky promise.) Until then, hope you all have a real shiny week!


	5. Thorns and Roses

Hello all, and happy Wednesday! First, I owe a heartfelt thanks to those who reviewed, followed and favorited last chapter. The support is so motivating, seriously. I'm overjoyed to have more readers and I do hope you continue to enjoy. Now, to the story!

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

THORNS AND ROSES

Mal bit his lip. Flicking his eyes between the service panel set into the wall of his bunkroom, and the notebook in his hands, he pressed the pen against the paper, and began to write. Or try to, at least.

The hired help on Councilor Zhi's estate were all given a basic timeline of the man's schedule, which indicated only when their boss planned to be away. It didn't specify where he was going, but luckily Mal was good at making friends. His newest friend was the cook, whom he'd met on the pretense of seeking a certain rare herb, to treat a horse with indigestion.

The cook didn't have the herb. It would've been surprising if he had, considering Mal had made it up.

A separate building housed the kitchen, connected to the mansion by an underground walkway. Mal had found the cook alone there, wrapping what looked like hundreds of red bean paste balls in rice-flour dough. It turned out that Galileo Shen, who insisted Mal call him Leo, had been working for Zhi going on twenty years. Leo prepared an advance supply of these bean paste desserts every time the Councilor had to leave Sihnon, the only planet where the ingredients were available.

"He's off to Londinium tomorrow, for the opening of the Parliamentary session," Leo had explained. "Then they meet for the next six months, two days a week. But there's also the Military Council meetings, every other week, and those can change up to the last minute, depending on whatever _fàng pì_ they have to deal with from the Border planets…" The cook tossed his paste-covered hands, shaking his head.

"That's a lot of bean paste balls," Mal had remarked. He promised to drop in again and say hello, whenever he had a few minutes free.

Then he'd rushed back to the stables, bursting at the seams. That past week, he'd gone through near every single drudge on Zhi's estate, digging up any excuse he could think of to start a conversation. At last, he'd found someone useful. Leo Shen had exactly the kind of information Mal's superiors wanted. But it had to pass through the proper avenues of communication first.

Anders had explained it all to Mal, though he didn't need to; anybody with eyes could see the Alliance stamp on all comms technology that existed, and deduce that the stamp spelled surveillance. Every transmission was recorded and sent up into their data cloud. From missile codes to grocery lists; if it was sent through the Cortex, the Feds could get their hands on it.

The solution, of course, was to go Old-tech. _Really_ Old-tech.

Mal had not had much occasion to work with paper, or write by hand, back on Shadow. In school and in business most people used tablets; they were cheap enough, and useful. His mother had showed him how she kept the books, using a pencil and paper, but Mal hadn't had much patience for it.

If he'd known that one day he would be trying to write out a message with ink and paper as an Independent spy, he would've paid more attention.

At last, he managed to get it all down. A calendar grid for the month of March, which marked the dates when Councilor Zhi would be gone, where he would be, and what would he would be doing there. There were a few blank spaces, but Mal could fill those in later, maybe after chatting a bit more with the cook.

Mal nodded to himself. He wouldn't be winning any calligraphy contests, but it was legible enough.

He tore the page from the notebook and folded it up, to tuck in his pocket. A glance at the service panel told him the delivery speeder would be arriving in ten minutes, to drop off that week's supplies for the estate.

Mal turned to leave, then stopped. He couldn't be seen hanging around the front driveway any longer than necessary. _Best to wait._ He flopped backwards into his chair, with a sigh.

If any aspect of spying for the Independents might kill him, Mal decided, it was the waiting around. Cooling his heels in his tidy, soulless bunk room. Not to mention the hours he had to spend doing the job he supposedly came there for.

He liked working in the stables, truth to say. Muscle memory had kicked in, though almost four years had passed since he last worked with horses, caring and keeping them. The Councilor owned seven, all of them shimmery and thin-legged animals who could never have managed one day's work on a ranch.

Mal shook his head, and stood back up. The mirror on the back of the door tossed his reflection at him. He grimaced.

If the waiting didn't kill him, then his service uniform surely would. It had arrived a couple days before, tailor-made for him. Mal had never been measured for clothing before in his life. It made him feel like a doll, dressed up to his master's specifications.

The uniform came all in one piece, a dark grey jumpsuit of very fine material, with two rows of gold buttons making a kind of 'V' shape across his chest. Mal had to admit, it fit him well. _A little_ too _well,_ he thought, twisting to see the rear view. He scowled, and tugged at the upright collar, snug around his neck.

 _If I'd been wearin' this little ensemble last Sunday,_ he mused, _maybe that Core-born girl wouldn't've taken me for some kinda fugitive pebble poacher._

Back on Shadow, everyone more or less dressed the same. But here, your clothes broadcasted everything about you. Everything that mattered, anyway. The only thing that mattered about Mal was that he worked in service. Convenient for Councilor Zhi and his sort. They didn't have to bother treating him like a human being.

But doubt lingered, small yet persistent, like an insect crawling up Mal's neck. No matter how many times he'd brushed it off that past week, it came back.

Why had the girl gone out of her way to lie for him? Flashing her smile at the groundskeeper, on Mal's behalf, minutes after she'd threatened him with a stick. Judging by her accent and attitude, she was as high-born as they came. Likely related by blood or social ties to Councilor Zhi.

It didn't make any kind of sense. But here on Sihnon, it seemed, nothing did. The only thing that mattered, that Mal could count on, was his mission.

He gave his reflection a nod, and opened the door.

/*/*\\*\

Mal took the scenic route up the hillside toward the drive, through a display of roses in full bloom. They'd been genetically manipulated to grow thick and thorny, into a maze-like hedge that made for convenient cover.

When he emerged, the deliver speeder was starting off. Mal waved it down, and jogged over. His heartbeat, meanwhile, broke into a sprint.

He reached the vehicle, and squinted up at the driver, shading his eyes. "Thought I recognized you," he said, casual as he could. "Been a long time."

Mal had never seen the man before in his life, of course, except in the picture Anders had shown him. He'd been given a name, Emory Osborne, but it was an alias, no doubt. Only one thing about the man Mal knew for certain.

He was from Shadow.

The driver hopped down from his speeder. "It surely has." The lilt of his speech fell on Mal's ears like a familiar song.

He smiled. "You'll be flyin' my way again?" The security question.

"Same time next week," Emory replied. This was the affirmative. If he said anything different, it meant he couldn't take any messages.

They smiled at each other, just like old friends would, but there was something grim in it. The driver pulled Mal into a close handshake, thumping him on the back. Mal took the opportunity to slip the piece of paper from his palm, into the driver's.

"Wish I could stay and shoot the bull, but I got other deliveries to make." Emory shoved his hand into his pocket, and swung himself by one burly arm back into the speeder.

Mal lifted a hand. "You take care."

The entire interaction lasted less than a minute. Mal crunched down the drive, back toward the mansion, fighting a grin. All he had to do now was get back to the stables, without being seen.

Of course, his luck chose that moment to run out.

A figure lumbered up the side of the mansion, in his direction. Mal stopped in his tracks.

" _Tā mā de,"_ he muttered.

He had to wonder if a tracking tag had been stitched into his uniform, _wouldn't be a surprise,_ because Talmai Davis always seemed to show up whenever Mal was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. The man had already lectured him four times that week on his "aimless wandering." A fifth occasion might cause the groundskeeper's scant reserve of patience to dry up once and for all.

Mal followed his first instinct. _Hide. Now._ He dove sideways, into the hedge on the garden's perimeter, without giving full consideration to the fact that it was bristling with thorns.

" _Tā mā de niǎo,_ " Mal growled under his breath, fighting the vines that latched onto his uniform, his skin, everywhere. He ignored the prickly reception and wriggled deeper into the hedge. Through the leaves, he saw Davis stop about fifteen feet away, and lift his head. His brow furrowed as he peered in the direction of the rose garden.

"Good afternoon, Davis."

Mal jumped, and bit down another curse, as a thorn found purchase on his ear. A girl's voice- no, _the_ girl's voice, had come from behind him. Miss Serra entered Mal's line of sight, coming out of the rose garden.

"Miss." Davis dipped his head to her. "Thought I heard someone over there."

She wore the same outfit as the week before, a plain yet well-made tunic and pants, with a thin gold rope tied around her waist. _A uniform?_ Mal wondered. Or maybe a one-note wardrobe was the latest trend amongst Sihnon's well-to-do youth.

"I was just admiring the Queen Isabella rose," she said. "Do give Sonder my compliments, when you see him."

"Of course." Davis bowed. "Afternoon, Miss."

The man trudged away, toward the drive. Mal let out his breath.

It caught in his throat when Miss Serra turned around, and looked right into his hiding place.

"You can come out, now."

Mal started to tear himself free. "How'd you know I was-"

She cut him off with an arch of her brow. Then she saw the vines holding fast to his uniform, catching on his neck, and her face pinched in sympathy.

"Oh, _hǎo kě lián."_ Before Mal could do anything to stop her, she was tugging plant matter out of his collar, and hair, helping him escape the shrub's claws. She lifted a hand, nearly brushing his cheek. "You're bleeding…"

Mal edged out of her reach. He shot the girl a look, eyes narrowed. "That's the second time you've covered for me. Why?"

She held his gaze. "Because I know why you were hiding from him."

His lungs filled with lead. He gaped at her.

"I also know I'm at least partially to blame," she finished, with a small smile.

Mal grasped her meaning, and gave a minute shake of his head. Of course she didn't know anything. _Idiot,_ he scolded himself _._

"The new groundskeeper is not the warmest person I've met. If he were my supervisor, I would hide, too. Though perhaps not in a rosebush." The girl drew one foot behind her, dipping into a curtsy, as she lifted a hand. "Inara Serra."

Mal looked at her hand. She'd offered it knuckles-up, _a mighty strange way to go about a handshake._ He took hold of it, and tried anyway. The girl's eyes got big. She made to pull her hand back, in obvious confusion.

Then, he got it. She'd offered her hand for him to _kiss_.

Mal shifted his grip, to hold her fingers gingerly. Her hand froze in his, as he lifted her knuckles to his mouth, and bumped his lips against them. He didn't take his eyes from hers, daring her to mock his mistake. She stared up at him. Her lips parted, as if halfway between a laugh and something else.

When at last they broke contact, Mal's head was buzzing. He swallowed. The girl, _Inara_ , was looking at him, expectant.

"Uh, I'm Mal."

The second it left his mouth, the cold certainty of disaster struck hard. Like a spaceship collision, it unfolded in utter silence, wrenching the air between them.

"I thought your name was Wesley," Inara ventured.

"It is." His words strung together in a rush, "But Mal's my nickname, short for Malachi, which is my middle name."

"So, you're Wesley Malachi…"

"Gale," Mal finished. "But my old man is Wesley, so uh, call me Mal."

Inara bit her lip, ducking her eyes. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be proper. I wouldn't want to-" she hesitated, "presume any familiarity between us…"

"'Course not," Mal said quickly. "Call me whatever you want." With a bit of an edge, he added, "After all, you don't answer to me."

She winced. Apparently, she recognized the words she'd thrown at him the week before.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Serra. I oughta get back to the stables." He started to move past her.

"Wait-" Her hand brushed his arm.

He turned.

"I was… looking for you, actually," she said, breathless. "I wanted to apologize."

Mal furrowed his brow. "For what?"

"For my behavior, when we first met. I made an assumption- several, in fact, and I treated you unfairly. I hope you can forgive me, but if not, I understand." She lifted her shoulders, only to let them fall. "I just wanted to convey my regret."

"Well, I wasn't too friendly, either." Mal rubbed his shoulder, eyes drifting to the side, before he forced them back to hers. "I'm sorry for gettin' short with you. And for, uh, cussin' like I did. I never would've used that kinda language if I'd known you were there."

"I believe that." Her mouth curled, twitching at the corners. "I appreciate, and accept, your apology."

"Yeah, so do I." Mal cleared his throat. "I mean, I accept yours, too."

Her smile broke open, and _aiya,_ it was like staring into the White Sun. Mal decided there ought to be a law against smiles like hers. Or some kind of restriction, to prevent its unlawful use around mortal men. A verifiable concealed weapon. Fortunately, she ducked her gaze, so she didn't see Mal blinking, stunned.

She looked back up at him, and tucked a curl behind her ear. Mal caught a flash of light, glinting off gold. A closer look revealed it was an earring, no bigger than a 2.5-platinum coin, with six engraved stars. They formed an unmistakable pattern, one that turned Mal's stomach.

The girl wore the symbol of the Alliance flag. Tagged with it, on her _ear,_ the same way they used to tag cattle, on Shadow. Mal fought to keep his disgust from showing on his face.

She kept on glowing at him. "I'm so very glad we're _yàohǎo,_ now."

"Yeah." His mouth twitched. _I most definitely ain't_ yàohǎo _with no Alliance royalty, like you._

"You should clean those scratches," she glanced at his neck, "so they don't become infected."

"I'll be fine," Mal said coolly. "But thanks for your concern."

"Well." Her eyes dimmed. "I shouldn't keep you from your work, and get you in more trouble than I already have."

"You're no trouble at all, Miss." Mal tipped her a small bow. " _Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān_ ," he chirped.

She gave him a thin smile. "Goodbye, Wesley," she said, soft.

Mal watched her walk away, curls bouncing against her shoulders, and chewed his lower lip. _No trouble._ He shook his head.

He almost dropped to his knees right there in the rose garden, to lift a prayer up to the Lord. For his own sake, and for the sake of his mission, Mal prayed he never crossed paths with Inara Serra again.

* * *

translations:

 _fàng pì -_ nonsense, bullsh*t

 _Tā mā de niǎo_ \- f*cking hell (lit. "his mother's dick," a touch stronger than _tā mā de)_

 _hǎo kě lián_ \- poor thing

 _yàohǎo_ \- to be on good terms with someone, friendly

 _Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān_ \- Have a nice day

* * *

Sorry, Mal. 'Fraid your dear and fluffy Lord has other plans. I have to be honest: of all the issues I've had with this story, probably the second biggest (after pacing) is the "spy stuff." I would be so grateful to hear any insight as to how believable Mal's activities were, at the beginning of this chapter. It's not the point of the story, per say (he's not James Bond) but it's a big part of it and I want it to come off realistically. And of course, any comments you might have about the story thus far, good or bad, please don't be shy - I love hearing from you.

So, you've probably got it by now. Next Wednesday, next chapter. ;) Hope to see you then!


	6. Unraveled

Hello hello, sorry I'm a bit behind my schedule here! I should come right out and say that I probably won't be able to stick to weekly updates, just for this coming month. Final projects and exams are upon me, I'm afraid. But for now, please enjoy this chapter!

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CHAPTER SIX

UNRAVELED

 _03 - 14 - 2506_

"Reporting live from the Capitol Square, our own Oriza Caleros brings you the latest on the Border, after some inclement new developments. Oriza?"

The Cortex display in Priestess Song's parlor flashed to the iconic shot of the enormous Capitol coliseum, its white stone a dull grey beneath the snow currently smothering most of Londinium's northeastern hemisphere. The field anchor nodded, one pink-gloved hand pressed to her earpiece.

"Good afternoon to you, Worth, and to our honorable viewers. This morning the newly-formed Independent Faction released their so-called 'Manifesto,' uniting extremist dissenters on over a dozen planets, among them Hera, Shadow, and Persephone. This is just two days after another attempted takeover of an Alliance peacekeeping base in Terr, on Hera."

A brief security footage clip played out, silent, of two dozen people in long brown coats bursting into a compound with rifles and clubs, unleashing chaos in blurred movement across the screen. Inara knit her brow, drawing closer, even as her stomach turned. Several bodies had dropped, both Independents and peacekeepers, when the feed cut back abruptly to the reporter in Capitol Square.

"Universal Relations Chancellor Deomar Sutherland has released an official statement, affirming that Parliament is confident in the success of its coming round of negotiations with planetary officials regarding the Unification process. Their course of action has not changed." She punctuated with a bob of her head. "Returning to you, Worth."

"Our gratitude, Oriza. And now, we turn to the latest in technology. A new line of fully emotive love bots rolls out this month-"

The screen flickered to black. Inara gave a small jump, and stood up. Priestess Song had slipped into the room and turned off the console without her notice, without a sound.

"I hope you weren't waiting long." When Inara shook her head, the Priestess gestured to the door, with a smile. "Shall we begin?"

Inara followed in Min's wake down the hallway. She brushed away lingering echoes of 'extremist dissenters' and 'negotiations' in her ears, in order to listen to the plan for their session that morning: a tour of the Center for Healing and Wellness, located in the lowest level of the House.

Outside the ornately-carved wooden door, Inara levelled her shoulders, and pressed herself up straight. Pulling a taut breath inward, she descended the stairs behind the Priestess, careful not to tread on the trailing hem of the woman's brocaded satin dress.

An enormous cavern stretched before them, full of soft, golden light. Lamps hanging overhead tossed their glow onto the stone walls, and cut diamonds into the channels of water which gurgled along the walkways. The bathing pools lay placid and clear, save a few occupied by trainees, talking in low voices.

"I encourage everyone to meet with our Practitioners often, not only when they have a specific complaint," said the Priestess as she led Inara through the baths. "Of course, for any serious injuries or illnesses, we must refer to the hospitals in Lu'Weng. But I hold that regular self-care, as well as mind-and-body awareness maintained through daily meditation, keep us alert to issues within ourselves before they become a grave threat."

They came to the well-lit area the far end of the cavern, divided by a series of half-walls. The Practitioners, half a dozen women dressed in light blue and white robes, bustled back and forth, in conversation with each other, or tapping on tablets. Each one paused to greet the Priestess with a bow as she went past.

Inara's eyes were pulled like magnets to the row of doors set into the back wall. Consultations and examinations took place in the private rooms, the Priestess explained in passing, and also served to house patients if they couldn't be moved.

"Such cases are very rare." Her voice reached Inara as if through layers of static. "But when it does happen, we're prepared."

Inara nodded. She fought the heaviness spreading through her. It was the same every time she came back to this place, and saw the doors carved from smooth, impassive stone.

" _You were so young,"_ everyone always said. _"Too young to remember."_

But it wasn't true. A part of her did. It came awake in the hollow of her chest, making every breath a conscious effort.

"It has not escaped my notice, Inara, that you don't visit the Center very frequently." The Priestess turned to look at her, for the first time since they'd descended the stairs. She arched her brow. "Maintaining the integrity of one's health is absolutely necessary in our work."

"Yes, Priestess," said Inara smoothly. "I've sought to make it a constant practice. I simply don't have any need to come here."

Priestess Song pursed her lips, and looked toward the private rooms. "I understand you have certain painful associations with this place," she said at last. "But you must overcome that. As Priestess, there can be no part of the House that you aren't comfortable in."

"Of course." Inara nodded. "I'm fine, truly."

Min's eyes held hers a moment longer, before she turned away, to lead Inara to another, smaller door off to the side. "Once a month I make a full check of the facilities. Our Head Practitioner shares with me any concerns or needs she may have, and together we review the medicine and herb stores."

She opened the door, and they stepped into a dark cubby of a room. The Priestess commanded the lights. A scant glow materialized along the edges of the ceiling, illuminating shelves full of jars and pots, Alliance-stamped boxes of immunization supplements nestled amongst bundles of dried herbs.

As Priestess Song listed off commonly requested supplements, Inara drifted toward a stack of dark brown jars, above the label 'Herbal Probiotic Ointment.' Distant memory sparked, warming the back of her neck. She picked up a jar, opened it, and breathed in.

Inara shut her eyes. With the suddenness of a dream the air shifted, and took on the weight of a woman's hands. Warm golden hands, wrapping Inara in a silk scarf and spinning her until she shrieked with joy. A smile, glinting in dark eyes, a voice murmuring praise over her toddler artwork.

Inara opened her eyes. She bit her lower lip, and turned the jar of ointment over in her hands. She thought, for some reason, of the stable boy. Blood beading along the scratches on his neck and ears, from the rough kiss of rosebush thorns.

"May I take one of these?" she blurted. The Priestess raised her eyebrows. Inara added, without thinking why, "My father's been complaining of sore joints…"

"Certainly." Priestess Song gestured to the small desk next to the wall. "Make a note on the Inventory board, and we'll inform one of the Practitioners before we leave."

Inara followed her instructions. The Priestess laid a hand on her shoulder, and Inara turned her head.

"Unless your father takes more concrete steps to reduce stress in his life, a simple herbal probiotic cream won't bring lasting change." Min's upward-angled eyes glinted, her irises almost as dark as her pupils.

Inara looked down at the pot in her hands. "I know." She looked back up at the Priestess. "But sometimes the gesture can do more good than the gift itself."

Min Song smiled warmly. "Spoken like a true Companion," she said.

/*/*\\*\

Inara hesitated outside the door to her father's stables. The burnished clay pot weighed heavy in her hands.

"Honestly," she muttered through a sigh. "Just get it over with." She made herself open the door, and step through.

The air stuck in her throat, sour with a stench almost thick enough to touch. Inara coughed, lifting the back of her hand to her mouth. Nausea rolled through her stomach, but she kept walking, down the main aisle to the barn, toward the sound of metal scraping on cement. All the stable doors were flung open, the horses nowhere to be seen, no doubt turned out in their paddock.

"Um, hello?" Inara called. It came out more like a squeak.

Something clattered to the floor, followed by a muffled curse.

Inara reached the last stall, where she found Wesley bent over, picking a shovel out of the layer of muck at his feet. The handle, now slick with manure, he gripped in both hands, as he straightened up.

Inara's eyes widened.

Grime streaked his arms, up to his bare shoulders. He'd pulled off the upper half of his uniform, to tie the sleeves around his waist. Only a thin white undershirt remained. It clung to his skin, with a V-shaped shadow of sweat where it met his chest.

Inara was not at all unfamiliar with the male form. Madrassa trainees were cured of any tendency to blush at such things by age sixteen. But no visual aide had prepared her for a spectacle quite like this.

She fought the urge to look away, and met his eyes. They were a deep, thorough blue, a detail she had failed to notice until that moment.

"Hello, Wesley."

"Hi," he shot back.

"It seems I've come at a less-than-ideal time…" she started, uncertain. The smell had ebbed, only to return, just when she thought she'd adjusted. Her stomach rolled.

"Oh no, not at all." Wesley gave her a flat smile. "I'd offer you a seat, but-" He tossed a hand to indicate the straw and horse waste which coated the floor of the stall, and threatened to spill out of the wheeled hand cart beside him.

"It's alright." Inara took a few steps closer. "I won't stay long."

His eyes darted to the side, then back to hers. He leaned away slightly. "How can I help you, Miss Serra?"

"Actually, I hoped I might be able to help you."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Inara regretted them. Wesley turned away, to scoop up another shovelful of manure.

"Didn't mean to give the impression I needed any help," he said curtly.

"You didn't. But I found this…" She held up the pot. "Healing probiotic ointment. I thought of your encounter with the rosebush last week, and it struck me as something you could use, perhaps."

He turned back to her, and scoffed, "They weren't hardly nothin'. Most all healed up now, anyway."

"I'm glad to hear that." Inara set the pot on the edge of the stall. "But judging by our two previous encounters, you're more than a bit accident-prone." She smiled. "Perhaps it's best you take it, just in case."

Wesley's mouth curled at one corner. "You may not be wrong about that." He dug the shovel into the muck again, and tossed his head toward the ointment. "Thanks."

Inara's smile widened. "You're welcome."

Wesley's eyes stuck in hers, a moment too long. He dumped the shovel into the hand cart, clearing his throat.

"So, uh, you come here often?" He winced. "I mean, you live nearby?"

Inara raised her eyebrows. "I would've thought my outfit gave it away." All Companions-in-training from Madrassa wore the same beige linen tunic, with a golden cord knotted around the waist, to communicate their status to outsiders.

The stable boy gave her a blank look. "Gave what away?"

Inara's stomach flipped. _He doesn't know._ She hadn't considered she might have to explain to Wesley what Madrassa represented. _Surely he knows what a Companion is, doesn't he?_

Inara met his eyes. For the second time that day, impulse gripped her, tugging the words out before she could stop them.

"I attend school nearby. It's… a diplomacy academy." Inara gestured to herself. "This is our uniform."

Wesley looked the clothing up and down. "Shoulda guessed you were trainin' to be a politician." He smirked. "You're a good liar."

Inara's brow crinkled, before she realized he was referring to the two separate occasions she had covered for him, lying in order to divert the suspicion of his supervisor.

She smiled. "One might call it deception. I prefer the term discretion."

"They sound mighty similar though, don't they?" Wesley rested the shovel upright, leaning on the handle. "Judgin' by your affinity for politics, and the fact that you come here every week, I'm gonna take a wild guess that you're related to Councilor Zhi."

"He's my father."

A shudder rippled through Wesley's shoulders, so brief Inara decided she might have imagined it. She went on, "I'm permitted to visit him every Sunday, as my school is so close."

Wesley gave a slow nod. "Diplomacy academy. Huh." He turned away, to scoop debris from the corner of the stall. "You're gonna be, what? An Ambassador or something?" He turned back around, emptying the shovel into the cart.

"Something like that. And what about you?"

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "What am _I_ gonna be when I grow up?"

"No, I mean- what brought you to Sihnon?"

He shrugged. "Nothin' in particular. I needed a job." He turned away, to fill the shovel. "Got an uncle livin' here, he set me up." He dumped the shovel into the cart, and muttered, "Weren't much left for me back home."

"Where is that?" Inara asked gently.

"Shadow."

Inara nodded. "I know of it _._ There's some unrest there, I've heard," she ventured, watching Wesley's face.

He let out a grim half-laugh. "You could say that."

Inara eyed him. "So. You left home, and journeyed all the way to Sihnon, to seek your fortune?"

"Yep." Wesley hefted the shovel in his hands, lifting up a heap of manure. "And whaddya know, I found it."

Inara laughed. It caught her by surprise, and she forgot to cover her mouth. Wesley grinned at her. His real smile struck Inara as more real, somehow, than other people's. It took over his entire face, dimpling his cheeks, crinkling his eyes. But something jarred him, and the smile vanished. He scratched his temple, turning away.

Inara's heart dropped to her stomach. _Shǎguā._ She shook her head at herself. "I'm afraid I must be going."

"So soon?" Wesley returned, mock-sweet.

Inara's smile stiffened. "I do hope you'll find some use for the ointment."

"I'm sure I will." Wesley dumped the shovel into the cart, and paused, to look her in the eyes. "It was real kind of you think of me."

"Oh, no." She waved a hand. "It was nothing, really."

He leaned the shovel against the wall. "They give you extra credit, at your diplomatical school, for charity and good works?"

Inara's mouth fell open. " _No._ I-" She stopped, and knit her brow. "Why do you assume I must have some self-serving motive?"

Wesley showed his palms. "I'm not sayin' that."

"Then what _are_ you saying?" Inara crossed her arms.

"Look, forget it," he said, with some force, as he turned away. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." Inara's voice came out barbed. Something hot and irrepressible filled her quicker than she could push it down, pricking under her skin. "You don't believe I would speak to you unless there was something in it for me."

He stared at her, mouth hard. His response was unspoken, but unmistakable.

 _Would you?_

"Believe it or not, I came down here because I thought you might like some company." Inara blushed, almost as if she were lying _._ Was she? "I see now I was mistaken."

"I'm sorry." The stable boy held perfectly still. His eyes probed hers. "I've offended you."

 _How astute of you to notice,_ Inara wanted to snap. She lifted her chin. "I'll just say this. If you can't accept one act of kindness, you're destined for a very cold and lonely life."

"Funny." He smiled. "That's just how I've always imagined a career in politics."

"Belittle it all you like, but I daresay you could benefit from a lesson or two in diplomacy."

"Could be that's true." He leaned an elbow against the wall, interlocking his fingers, and smirked down at her. "You offerin' to teach me?"

Against her will, Inara's training whirred in the back of her mind. It notated and catalogued the boy's closeness, the way he'd turned his whole body toward her, and how hers had responded in kind.

She swallowed, half-turning away. "I doubt I have the skill, nor the patience, to be your tutor."

"Shame." Wesley lifted himself off the wall, with a shrug. "Not like I could afford it anyway, I'd imagine. Unless you'd accept payment in fresh manure."

Inara resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well." He grabbed the handle of the cart. "If the lecture's over, Ambassador, I oughta get on with my work."

"Yes. I should also, um… get on." Inara turned to leave, then paused, to toss a glance at him, over her shoulder. "I suppose we may see each other again, Wesley. That is, if you can manage to keep your job."

He pushed the cart out of the stall, toward the sliding doors on the back wall. " _Duì shàng dì de xī wàng,_ Miss Serra." He tipped her a salute.

Only after she'd made it through the front entrance of the stables did Inara lose her composure, and collapse against the door. She tilted her head back, and shut her eyes. A long exhale shuddered out of her.

 _What in the name of Buddha was_ that?

Inara lifted herself off the door, and took another breath. She picked up her feet over the grass, letting the air wick the heat from her skin, as she made her way toward the speeder that would carry her back to Madrassa.

Whatever reason she'd come to the stables, to extend a friendly hand, or _perhaps,_ some bet against herself, that no one could resist her charms once she decided to employ them, Inara left it all behind her. Along with Wesley's full-face grin.

She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

* * *

translations:

 _Shǎguā_ \- dummy, idiot (lit. foolish melon)

 _Duì shàng dì de xī wàng_ \- Hope to God ("I sincerely hope so")

* * *

Another unfortunate interaction between our star-crossed duo. I promise things will shift between them... eventually. (When I write slow burn, I take it slooooow.) But I do hope it's an enjoyable ride! If you _are_ enjoying it, I'd be so grateful to hear from you in a review. If not, I'd be equally grateful to hear why. I know I'm kind of a broken record here asking for feedback but I've noticed a good number of ghost readers on this story and I just want to know if you're liking it, or if not, how I can make it better. :) (And to those who have been reviewing - you are awesome and deserve all the shiniest things in the 'Verse.)

I'll post Chapter 7 as soon as life allows. Hope to see you there!


	7. The Scent of Soil

Hello! Sorry again for my delay in updating. I'm still mired in final projects and presentations, but I wanted to get this chapter up before too much more time passed. This is a somewhat unusual chapter, but it contains a lot of information that's necessary to the plot, so I tried my best to present it in an interesting way, and this is what came out.

 _Content warning:_ The loss of a parent in a violent death comes up in this chapter, including (brief) graphic description. Please do whatever you need to take care of yourself.

Soundtrack \- **Mal's Theme:** "The Derry Tune" by Bruno Coulais & Kila, from _Song of the Sea: Original Soundtrack (2014)_

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SCENT OF SOIL

Mal had a gun in his hand.

That was always the first thing he noticed. The second was the mud, slick beneath his boots.

In a three-point crouch, the grass reached up to his neck, scratching at his chin. The rest of him was hidden by a thicket of ivy, crowding the base of the evergreen tree which stood sentinel on the front lawn of the ranch.

In a dappled green ocean, Mal had been submerged. He couldn't see his body when he looked down. But he could sense his size. He tensed the muscles in his arms and legs, and they held the power of an adult.

He looked at the folks around him. The light on that morning was hazy, filtered through dense cloud cover, but Mal knew the faces of those people in any kind of light.

Silas crouched beside him on one side, Maribel on the other, their eyes set dead ahead. A mule was parked close by. Percy and Anders hid behind it, rifles resting on their shoulders. The more Mal looked, the more people appeared, figures penciling in against the monotony of grass and endless grey sky. More than two dozen men and women, half of whom worked on his mother's ranch.

Mal always saw her last. The only one in the open, his mother stood alone on the gravel drive. She had settled into her unmovable stance. Feet wide apart, shoulders pulled back. One hand on her hip, the other on her holster, ready to draw.

He preferred to remember her like this. The broad planes of her face sharpened in profile, her thick dark hair roped up into a bun, a few loose strands whipping her cheeks in a sudden gust of wind. A Lady in her own right, yet prepared to get down in the dirt and fight, if she had to.

A beat behind, _always too late,_ Mal realized: the wind wasn't wind. It was the deceleration of a half dozen Alliance ships, descending on the ranch, slow yet certain, inexorable. They landed in formation, with the smallest at the head of the group. A sleek black and silver bullet. Its doors lifted, and five men crawled out. Like insects, their uniforms glinting in the diffused sunlight.

The Alliance detachment strode down the drive. All five held their hands clasped behind their backs, faces stony beneath the brim of their caps.

The man at the head of the group brought them to a halt. He didn't even remove his hat as he addressed Mal's mother.

"Nǐ hǎo, _Mrs. Faith Reynolds."_

" _Gentlemen."_ She lifted her chin. _"This would be my land you've parked on. I'm within my rights to ask you to leave."_

 _"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Reynolds. The eviction notice you received previously is hereby in effect. You are to vacate this property, or be removed by force."_

 _"Eviction?"_ She shook her head. _"I don't think so. Let's call this what it is. Annexation of land by a governmental body using coercion or force. Which has been unconstitutional here for the past seventy years, by the ruling of the Primary Court of Shadow, L-Code A28-"_

The officer cut her off. _"Our authority supersedes that of the Court, and any other planetary governing bodies."_

 _"We'll see about that_. _You go through with this, you can be assured I will appeal, and I'll bring a whole county of dispossessed folks along with me. You'll be sorry you ever stepped a toe over my property line."_

The Alliance men betrayed no reaction to this. They stood stiff and still, like dolls.

" _We're here because you broke the law, Mrs. Reynolds,"_ the officer said patiently.

 _"So I heard. 'Tax evasion.'"_ She crossed her arms. _"But since_ my _government is now in the pocket of Blue Sun, I just didn't see the sense in funding their campaign to steal our land. Pushing farmers to buy their enhanced super-seeds, so they can squeeze 'em dry for 're-planting rights' every season. And if they can't pay, well, it's another pretty patch of soil for your collection."_

The officer was unmoved. _"If you don't vacate this property immediately, we are prepared to remove you."_ His words crept like cold fingers over the back of Mal's neck. _"We have been granted the power to use lethal force."_

On cue, the doors of the other five, larger Alliance ships hissed open. Boots clattered down the walkways, and the silver and blue uniforms of the Peacekeeping squadron multiplied until there were forty men, sonic rifles slung across their backs. standing behind the group in front.

And opposite them, one woman. Her arms shifted to her sides, one hand on the butt of her revolver.

 _"Funny thing about power, gentlemen."_ Faith's voice cut through the thin air. _"Those who've got it tend not to expect it from anyone else."_

Silas and Maribel tensed. So did Mal. His legs coiled beneath him, ready to move. A thread of tension stretched taut through the air, as subtle as a collective intake of breath.

The officer spoke up. _"Let it be put on record that Faith Reynolds has been given ample warning. Yet she refuses to comply."_

 _"Damn right I do. But for the record, make that 'we.'"_ Mal's mother drew her pistol, and cocked it with one hand. _"You heard me, folks. Now!"_

The field erupted, the curtain of grass and ivy blown open by gunfire, a sudden thunderstorm that shattered the air. The women and men of the Birdseye militia kept close to their cover, taking a few quick shots before they ducked back again, making the most of the peacekeepers' surprise. More than a few of the blue-and-silver beetles were dead before they knew what was happening.

Shouts slung back and forth between the commanding officers and their underlings. The peacekeepers scattered to more defensible positions, along the sides of their ships. The sonic rifles had a short range, and the militia clung to this advantage as long as they could. But it couldn't last forever. They would have to give up their cover, or give up the fight.

Percy was the first to emerge, from behind the mule. He tossed his arm forwards, and barked, _"Move!"_

The militia obeyed. Mal moved with them.

But somewhere in the kaleidoscope of bullets and people and the shells of Alliance armor, he lost sight of his mother. Before he could fire a single shot, the gun vanished from his hands. Among the towering figures of the militia, he shrank. Smaller, weaker. He looked down at himself, and saw skinny arms and legs. His feet slid in secondhand boots.

He watched one of his mother's hands crumple to the ground not ten feet away from him. _Percy,_ with gentle, drooping eyes; Percy, who had helped Mal get back up the first time he'd fallen off a horse. Mal wanted to run to him, but there was an Alliance peacekeeper coming close. Mal scrambled out of his path, away from the hot, electric stench of sonic energy.

Someone yanked on his collar. He choked, stumbling.

" _The hell're you doin' here, boy?"_ It was Maribel. She tried to pull Mal into her arms, to drag him to safety. Mal didn't say a word, didn't even look at her. He slipped out of the woman's grip like light through a net.

He kept moving, tripping over bodies, Alliance and Birdseye folk alike. Some were contorted in pain, moaning. Others lay still and silent. Mal was small and quick enough to be ignored. He ducked laser fire and bullets, none intended for him. He tried to see through the chaos of movement around him, but his vision blurred, panic climbing up his throat.

" _Mama!"_ The word took almost all his strength. He gasped. _"Mama!"_

As always, he saw a body. A woman. Before he could reach her, Silas stepped into his path. The man gripped him by the shoulders. His voice came from a long way's off.

" _You can't be here, son. You can't see this."_

Mal's fear made him strong. He ripped himself out of the man's hands, and dove past him. He didn't get far. He came up against a wall of frozen air, and collapsed to his knees.

Mal could not reconcile what he saw with the world he knew. He touched the ground, and the planet tilted off its axis beneath him.

 _"Mama,"_ he whispered.

She wasn't moving. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't moving. She lay still, lips parted, staring up at the sky. A dark stain, like a huge land mass, had eaten its way across her shirt, covering her stomach. The silver cross she wore around her neck, always, glinted from the hollow of her collarbone, untouched by blood.

Her hands lay empty, cold and pale. Mal held one in both of his, gripped so hard it hurt. He tugged at her.

 _"Mama."_ The word came apart in his mouth, splintered.

Someone grabbed Mal's shoulders, tried to pull him upright, pull him away. He resisted. Voices knocked against his ears, and bounced off. Nothing could penetrate the fog, dense and feverish, that had rolled over him.

The fog became material. A thick mist that sucked everything else away. Silas, and all the other militia folk, the Alliance ships, the evergreen tree and the front fence. Gone.

All Mal could see was his mother's body, splayed on the gravel drive. He looked up, and there was the head Alliance officer. Uniform pristine, unblemished by the corpses at his feet. Still wearing his cap. His laser pistol gleamed like a cruel smile, aimed for Mal's heart.

Mal let go of his mother's hand. A metallic weight settled into his palm, instead _._ The gun. He'd wished for it so hard, in that moment, he'd made it real.

He stood up, turning toward the officer. Mal didn't see the man's face. He saw a target.

He fired.

The release was immediate. It burst like a dam breaking in Mal's chest. It burned him from the inside out, consuming the oxygen in his lungs.

A dark hole bloomed between the officer's eyebrows. Mal watched as the man swayed, and fell.

Then, he looked down at himself. He saw the blood spreading across his own chest, a mirror image of his mother's. Too late, _always too late,_ he pressed a hand against the wound. The blood spilled over his fingers, its heat reached his throat.

Only when he could no longer hold onto it did Mal let go of the gun. Only when he lost his balance, as the ground disintegrated beneath him, and he fell into the black.

/*/*\\*\

Mal bolted upright, gasping for breath, one hand still clutched tight to his chest. He panted, blinking, as he fumbled along the edge of his sleeping berth, and at last found the button to turn on the light.

His bunk room materialized around him, and he exhaled. _Sihnon._ The present moment came back in pieces. He held onto them with all his might. _Solomon Zhi's estate. In the stables._

Mal's breath caught. He crumpled in half, pulling his knees up to lay his arms across them. He rested his head against his forearms, and squeezed his eyes shut. Drops of heat escaped, to trace over his cheeks. He took a shuddering breath, and let it out slowly.

The trouble was he never knew he was dreaming. It didn't matter how many times he'd had this dream, _so many times,_ it didn't matter how much it warped and diverged from what had really happened. Mal lived that morning, every time he dreamed about it.

Every time, he became the fifteen-year-old kid he'd been then, calling for his mother, clutching her limp hand.

In reality, he hadn't been there to see the fight. Faith had left him under the close eye of a neighbor. She had forbid him to come anywhere near the ranch.

Of course, he hadn't obeyed. But by the time he managed to escape, and run home, he was too late. He'd shoved Silas out of his way to get to her. He'd found her lying on the drive, already gone. That piece of the nightmare was always real. He could never change it. No matter how his subconscious recreated the event, making him into a militia member, or even an Alliance peacekeeper, a few times.

Mal lifted his head, and touched the chain around his neck. He followed it with his fingers all the way down to the cross. It was warm, and slightly damp with sweat. Mal pulled his shirt off over his head. Using a dry patch of fabric, he wiped the emblem clean.

The days following his mother's death were blurred with grief. All Mal could remember was Silas. Steady and quiet, standing beside him. Silas was the one who made sure the necklace got to Mal, when his mother's body was being prepared for burial.

It was Silas, along with a handful of the other Birdseye militia members, who had told Mal how it was.

" _They weren't expectin' your Mama to throw legal code at 'em."_

Nods of reverence. _"Smart as a whip. That was Faith."_

Trading small smiles, as they unrolled the legend. _"She laid 'em out proper for the hurts they done us here. Takin' our livelihoods."_

For years after, they repeated the story, usually when gathered around the stove in Silas' kitchen, at the end of a night spent drinking and reminiscing. Mal heard it so many times, he felt like he _had_ been there, to see his mother make her last stand against the government men.

Mal rubbed the cross, staring at nothing, his mouth drawn tight. His heartbeat had calmed, at last. But the pain in his chest refused to release its hold, like a burning ember shoved down his throat. Mal touched the place where he'd been shot, in his dream.

A strange impulse sent him to his feet. Shaking off sleep, Mal shuffled over to the desk on the far wall, and picked up the little clay pot. It had no label, but he remembered what Miss Serra had called it: ' _healing probiotic ointment.'_ He lifted the lid, and took a cautious sniff.

He'd expected it to smell like jasmine or wildflowers or some other _niáng niáng qiāng_ nonsense. But the scent was more like soil, rich and earthy, reminding Mal of a forest floor. He breathed in deep, and exhaled through his mouth.

He shut his eyes. _Inara Serra._ Daughter of one of the most powerful men in the 'Verse. A man whom, incidentally, Mal had been assigned to spy on.

And he had pretty much ensured she would never want to speak to him again.

He couldn't think too clearly, it seemed, when she was right in front of him. Mal shook his head at himself. He wasn't about to lose sleep over the bruised feelings of some Coreworlder. But it had stung to see the hurt in her eyes, brief but genuine, at his accusation. His insinuation, really, that she hadn't come all the way down to the stables just to ask after his health.

A part- okay _, most_ of him had wanted to unsettle her. Wrinkle her silk-smooth manner a bit. The victory tasted ashen in his mouth.

" _I came down here because I thought you might like some company. I see now I was mistaken."_

Well, Mal could do without her sort of company. But he knew his superiors wouldn't like to hear that he'd scared off what was possibly the best source of intel they could've hoped for.

He tapped the service panel set into the wall by the door, squinting at the time. It was 3:07, three hours since he'd fallen asleep. Two left before he had to get up, and face the day of his first debriefing. He would use his free Monday afternoon to go into the capital city and meet with his contacts, for the first time since his mission had begun, giving them a full report of his past two weeks on Zhi's estate.

Sleep was unlikely, all things considered. But Mal turned off the screen anyway, and stumbled back to his sleeping berth. Without meaning to, he took the little clay pot of ointment with him.

Only because he was dead exhausted, only because he was alone, Mal forgot his pride and took two fingertips' worth of the balm, to rub into his chest. It cooled pleasantly on his skin. The smell of mist rising from soil calmed him, as he breathed in.

Mal set the pot on the shelf above his head, and collapsed onto the mattress. Somehow, against all odds, sleep crept back to him. And the Coreworlder's smile lit warm, fleeting dreams that he would forget upon waking.

* * *

translations:

 _Nǐ hǎo_ \- Hello (formal)

 _niáng niáng qiāng_ \- sissy, girly, feminine

* * *

Does Chekhov's gun apply to guns in dreams, as well? Well, it should, in my opinion. So. Do what you will with that information.

I would so appreciate opinions/feedback on this chapter! Especially as it was a bit... well, strange. Next chapter gets the main plot moving again, and I'm super excited to post it, so I promise I'll try to get it up as soon as possible. Until then, stay shiny!


	8. Expectations

Hey, I'm back! And better than ever. (Or at least, much better now that I'm done with school for the year.) And I'm very happy to have more time for writing and reading and all that. This chapter and the next really dig into the main conflict, so I do hope you enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

EXPECTATIONS

Set into the outermost reaches of the western wing, the Library received the full heat of the White Sun every morning. A wall of windows poured light over every surface, gleaming in the glass displays of Earth-that-Was artifacts, spilling across cherry oak tables, their dark-grained surface broken only by the holo-screens set into the wood.

Inara gave up on the notes spread in front of her. She tilted her gaze out the window, to the sun-saturated view of the valley below, cradled amidst the mountains. The beauty was little more than static, melting into insignificance, as the news bulletin from the day before crept up to the surface of Inara's mind.

The Independent Faction had released a Manifesto. Leaders from over a dozen planets, apparently, had signed it. _Including Shadow._ And then there was the surveillance clip, of another attempted takeover of a peacekeeping base: violence, desperation, cut short by the calm voice of the news anchor insisting that Parliament's negotiations regarding Unification would proceed unchanged.

With a sigh, Inara gathered all her notes into a folder, and stood up. She crossed the room to the individual work area on the far wall, and slipped inside the first open carrel, pulling the crimson velvet curtains closed behind her. Settling down before the screen, she opened the Portal with a few taps of her fingers.

"Welcome, Inara Serra, to the House Madrassa Library Archive. State any subject or search term to begin."

Inara hesitated, then said, "Shadow, planet."

The House symbol spun for a moment, before a basic information profile appeared. The computer started in brightly, "Shadow orbits the protostar Murphy, in the outer ring of the Georgia system. It is the second highest producer of agricultural goods in the Universe, after Hera, and the most populous of its neighboring planets. Shadow's capital is Ferrous, with a population of-"

Inara closed out of the page, shaking her head. The same dull, faceless statistics they'd glossed over in their Composition of the Universe lectures.

An idea occurred. "Refined search, news articles," she requested.

The symbol spun again, before presenting her with a list of headlines. The first dozen results spoke of nothing but the Independents. Lacking any details beyond the damage to Alliance property and how many arrests were made.

An article from a smaller news corporation caught Inara's eye, despite the fact that it was three years old. The headline cried: _'Animal rights crisis on Shadow: Horses abandoned amid property turnover.'_

Inara's brow furrowed. "Property turnover?" she murmured.

She opened the story, and waded through descriptions of the _"majesty and strength"_ of Shadow's horses, all the way to the fourth paragraph, where the reporter grazed the real cause of the dilemma.

 _"These perceptive, intelligent creatures have lost their homes in a widespread wave of evictions, many due to tax evasion perpetrated by their owners. Local officials find themselves overwhelmed with the logistics of processing the animals, and profiteering businesses have taken advantage of the situation to buy horses from the government in large numbers. 'Most of 'em are headed for the slaughterhouse,' one former rancher tearfully admits."_

Inara's mouth dropped open. It stayed that way as she read through to the end, searching for more quotes from Shadow residents. There weren't any. The article ended with a plea to _"our compassionate, animal-loving readers,"_ to open their hearts and purses for the cause.

Inara frowned. She read back through the article, and her eyes stuck on _"…widespread wave of evictions, many due to tax evasion…"_ She recalled what her father had said, about the Independents' refusal to pay taxes.

But if refusing to pay meant losing their homes, and their horses, then why would they? Inara shook her head. _There has to be something else…_

"Inara," a breathless voice shocked her back to the present. "So _this_ is where you were hiding! I've been looking everywhere."

She whirled around, to find Riz tumbling through the curtains of the study carrel. Inara shot to her feet. Half unconsciously, she blocked the screen from view.

"I wasn't hiding." She knit her brow. "What is it?"

Riz stumbled to a halt, leaning against the wall. She managed between gulps of air, "I overheard… the Priestess asking for you… ten minutes late to your shadowing session. You need to get to her chambers. Right now."

Inara blanched. "Oh, no." Panic expanded in her chest. She turned back to the computer, to close out of the Archive portal, and turn it off.

"What were you doing in here, anyway?" Riz demanded. "And what is the matter with you? Since when do _you_ lose track of time?"

Inara spun toward her. "Look, I appreciate the warning but I don't require a lecture on punctuality right n-"

"Inara?"

They both snapped their heads toward Priestess Song, peering through the curtains of the study carrel, one brow arched. Her eyes landed on Riz. She smiled. "Tabitha. Good morning."

Riz winced at the sound of her real name. "Good morning, Priestess." She bowed.

The Priestess narrowed her eyes, ever so slightly. "I do hope you haven't been running through the halls again."

Riz clamped her mouth tight. Her chest still heaved under her uniform, pale cheeks crosshatched with red. She shook her head. "No, Priestess, never," she breathed. "Just walking. Very quickly. Um."

Priestess Song turned her gaze to Inara. "I need to have a word with you. Shall we take tea together?"

Inara bit her lip. Nausea rolled through her stomach. She dipped her head. "Of course."

The two of them followed the Priestess out of the Library. Before parting ways in the corridor, Riz grabbed Inara's hand, and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes said, _'Good luck.'_ Inara managed a nod in return, before Riz let go, and scurried off.

Inara fell into step behind the Priestess, willing her heartbeat to quiet its executioner's march in her chest. The Priestess stopped a passing attendant, to request in Chinese _'tea for two, in the Portia Room,'_ then continued into the eastern wing. At last, she stopped outside an open door, and gestured for Inara to enter first.

Inara didn't have much occasion to venture into the eastern wing. It functioned as a reception area, where Madrassa residents could meet with guests: female relatives, visiting Companions, or prospective trainees. Only instructors and current trainees passed through the courtyard to the western wing, where the classrooms and examination salons were located. Both upper levels of the House were devoted to living quarters, a space for trainees alone. No instructors or visitors, not even family members, were allowed upstairs.

The Priestess alone had dominion over the entire House. If she wanted to speak with Inara in the seclusion of the reception area, but not in the intimacy of her own parlor, it was for a reason.

Inara realized her hands had curled into fists, and forced them to let go. She took her seat on one of the cushions by the window, but didn't even glance outside, watching the Priestess closely. Min took her time sitting down, arranging blue robes, dotted with tiny white blossoms, around her. Her smooth, symmetrical face betrayed no emotion.

At last, Inara couldn't hold it in any longer. "I'm so sorry I was late. I was studying in the Library and I lost track of time, I- I regret the disrespect I have shown you." She pressed her hands together at her chest and made a bow of apology, as deep as she could. She held the position, breathing hard through her nose.

A hand cupped Inara's cheek. She looked up. The Priestess lifted her chin, coaxing her back upright. The woman's mouth curled, eyes warm.

"I didn't bring you here to scold you, Inara." The Priestess took her hand away. "Your distraction is a symptom of a larger problem, one you and I must resolve together. But first, you need to tell me exactly what's been going on these past two weeks."

Inara froze under the black pearls of Min's eyes. She opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words to begin.

"I fear," the Priestess heaved a sigh, "that your father's stress is beginning to infect you. Perhaps we should postpone your visits to his estate, until you've had time to regain your focus-"

"No," Inara blurted, a bit too loud. "That is, I mean, I don't think that's a good idea. He needs me." She gulped air, and went on, "I sorted his correspondence backlog for him yesterday, so he could get a few minutes of rest. That's why I was so late getting back to the House."

Unbidden, the stable boy edged his way into her thoughts, wearing his wry smirk. _"You're a good liar."_ Inara grimaced, and shoved him away. _  
_

"Your father is a fully capable adult," said the Priestess, brusque. "You should reserve your energy for your studies, and trust him to balance his health and his campaign."

A knock came from the door. Min called out, _"_ _Qǐng jìn."_ The attendant entered with a tray, and set it on the table. Min gave the woman a single nod. _"_ _Xiè xiè nǐ."_

After the attendant had gone, the Priestess set about preparing the tea. Silence settled, dense as steam between them. Inara accepted her tea, nestling the painted ceramic vessel in both hands. Min drank from her own cup, letting the silence stretch to its limits, before she spoke.

"Your father was appreciative, I imagine, of the probiotic ointment you brought him?"

Inara froze, tea cup lifted halfway to her lips. Slowly, she lowered it all the way back to the table.

"I… didn't give it to my father, in the end." The truth tugged itself out, catching on Inara's teeth. "I saw one of the service on his estate sustain a minor injury, and I- well, it seemed he needed it more."

The Priestess sat unmoving. "You delivered the ointment to this man yourself?"

"Not a man." _Certainly not in terms of maturity._ "Not quite, anyway," she amended. "He's my age, or close."

Priestess Song set down her cup. "I see."

Inara's heart quickened. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing, Inara?" The Priestess arched her words into the curve of a blade. "That's not a rhetorical question. I want to hear what you feel you've done wrong."

Inara swallowed. "I... I don't know."

Priestess Song shook her head. "But you do. You know the rules." Her voice flattened. "Unchaperoned interaction with outsiders in your age set is strictly prohibited."

"I thought that only mattered when…" Inara reached for a better way to say it, and came up short. "When the outsider and trainee are of equal social status."

"No. Indeed, it matters more when they are not."

Inara scrunched her brow. "I don't understand."

"A person who is not of this world may not recognize its limits. He's less likely to comprehend the boundaries inherent to your position." The Priestess gentled her voice. "You acted out of compassion. But some lines cannot be crossed."

Heat prickled in Inara's cheeks. "I didn't mean to- to cross any _lines…"_

"One's intentions have little bearing on a matter such as this. Appearances, and duty, matter far more."

Inara bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood.

"If this happens again, you could be expelled from the House." Priestess Song leaned forward, eyes sparking in a shaft of sunlight. "Even I would be powerless to help you." She lifted her tea cup. "It may seem severe, but the rules exist for a reason, and they must be obeyed. Do you understand?"

Inara nodded. "Yes, Priestess." She stole a shallow breath, and finished, "It won't happen again. I promise."

Priestess Song stared at her for a long moment, before she softened. "You are so close, Inara." She spoke just above a murmur. "To your license, perhaps an Apprenticeship for the Priestesshood, to a rich and fulfilling life. Everything you've worked so hard for. You mustn't do anything to jeopardize that now."

Inara picked up her tea, and peered into the dark grains in the bottom of the cup, shifting like sand under waves.

"I won't," she murmured.

The Priestess took a sip of tea. "Good. Now that's resolved, I trust you won't ever be late to one of our sessions again."

Inara shook her head. A hollowness yawned in the pit of her chest. As if something delicate and half-formed, too new to be fully known, had been ripped from her by the root.

Min smiled. "Leave this mistake behind you, and look forward. To your exams, and your future." She lifted her cup, in a toast. _"Gān bēi."_

" _Gān bēi."_ Inara returned the gesture.

She drank from her cup, deep enough to taste the bitter leaves.

* * *

translations:

 _Qǐng jìn_ \- Come in (formal)

 _Xiè xiè nǐ_ \- Thank you

 _Gānbēi_ \- Cheers

* * *

So, I have a little speech to make, and I'd really appreciate if everyone who is reading this would hear me out (except those who have already been reviewing, love you guys, stay shiny): Writing a full-length fanfic takes a lot of time and effort. I love doing it, and sharing it here with you, but it's hard to put so much of myself into something and not get much in return. I'm not trying to yell at anyone, I just want to tell it straight. I can see the number of visitors & views, and I've done the math: if even 1 visitor out of every 10 (yep, just 1 in 10) left a review, this story would have almost _3_ _times_ the number of reviews it has right now. I know Firefly is a small fandom these days, but all the more reason to support the content creators who are here, right? I also know you all have busy lives, so I'm not asking for epic poems. Just a couple words like "Great! Keep it up!" or whatever would make me so happy. If you have complaints or critique, even better! So go ahead, make my day. (Yeah, that reference is grossly out of context, just go with it.)

In conclusion, I'd love to hear your thoughts on Inara's discoveries in this chapter, and Priestess Song's ultimatum. (And more tea-drinking. *sigh* I promise to put the brakes on the tea for at least a couple chapters.) The next chapter takes us back to Mal, in a very new and different setting, and I can't wait to post it. Until then, I really hope to hear from you, and may you all have a marvelous week! *salutes*


	9. Reality

Hello, hello! I'm psyched to be posting this chapter, because it ( _finally_ ) gets Mal off Zhi's estate and into a very different setting. I had a lot of fun imagining and writing it, so I do hope you enjoy.

Soundtrack \- **Lu'Weng:** "The Sea Scene" by Bruno Coulais & Kila, from _Song of the Sea: Original Soundtrack (2014)_ \+ **Day and Night:** "Smooth" by Saib, 2017 Single

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

REALITY

Walking through the main drag of Sihnon's capital city, Mal felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. Encased on all sides by a prism of buildings, advert-banners and screens. Laser beams of afternoon sun sparked off the metal and mirrors, and lashed his eyes, if he dared to lift his head.

Lu'Weng may be beautiful, but its beauty came at a price.

Of course, the _tiān cái_ who designed this solar oven of a cosmopolis never had to step foot on its streets. They breezed back and forth overhead, cool and comfortable inside their speeders, between air-conditioned business towers. They never had to reckon with the pitfalls of their creation.

A bead of sweat rolled down Mal's neck, under the collar of the light, formless shirt he'd found in his bunk room, left behind by the previous stable hand. At least he didn't have to wade through this crystal jungle in his service uniform.

He felt more himself every minute he spent not wearing it. His feet moved more surely in the worn, tanned-leather boots he'd brought with him from Shadow.

It was only Mal's second time in Lu'Weng, the first being when he arrived. He stole frequent glances at the scrap of paper in his hands. The street map Anders had given him, crude and unmarked, was Mal's sole guide. He couldn't even carry the route key Emory Osborne had slipped him the day before, after making his Sunday delivery.

Before every debriefing, there'd be a different key. Mal laid it over his own map like a stencil, in order to see the route to the meeting place. Then he had to commit the location to memory, and destroy the key. _"That way, if you get yourself caught, they won't haul us in, too,"_ Anders had explained. _"Least, not 'til they torture our names outta you."_

Mal grimaced. He could always rely on Prince for a comforting word.

Like a sky shifting towards dusk, the bright heat of the commercial district gave way, little by little. At the end of a narrow street, Mal came to a cement stairway leading downwards at a steep grade. The buzz of one-person speeders and shouting voices grew louder as he descended.

At the base of the stairs, Mal stepped into a different city altogether. Gone were the high-gloss surfaces and smartly-dressed guards. Here, the streets tangled artlessly. Buildings grew out of one another without any human design or intervention. Bulging residential blocks huddled together like giant beasts with so many shuttered eyes.

Mal pressed himself into the crush of people, squeezing through the narrow passage between the vendor's stands which lined both sides of the street. The stench of overripe fruit and char from the hissing grills thickened the air into soup.

Half from his memory of the map key, and half from instinct alone, Mal found his way to the vice district. There was no sign, of course. It was written plain as could be in the hungry eyes of men leaning against the walls, hands hidden in their pockets. In the grins of teenagers with mouths full of razor-sharp teeth, filed to points with metal.

All down the street bars kept their doors flung open, to let the sound of music and laughter escape. It didn't matter that it was the middle of the afternoon. In a city where half the population worked nights, a 24-hour business model was the rule, rather than the exception.

Women in scant clothing decorated the entrances of every establishment. The neon signs lent a lurid polish to their brightly-colored wigs. _Bait._ Mal's stomach twisted.

Even here, below Lu'Weng's perfect surface, the lie persisted. Glamour and glitter to conceal the dirt underneath. Mal saw it in the women's eyes, their wide smiles, teasing him as he hurried past. _"What's the rush? Who's your boss-daddy, errand boy?"_ They were paid to pretend, all of them, pretend they wanted him. _"Hey,_ jùn nán, _come in and have a drink with me."_ They did it because it worked. So many others played along.

Mal ignored them. He wouldn't be taken in by a lie.

At the end of the street, he stopped, and turned to his right. That was as far as the instructions had gone. He looked up at the entrance of the bar. Characters curled in blue and gold light above the door, spelling out _Rìyèdiàn._ 'Day-and-Nightclub.'

A hand clapped onto Mal's shoulder, and he jumped. He relaxed when he heard the familiar cackle, and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, turning to face Anders Prince.

He wore an iridescent suit, which he managed to outshine by the glow of his russet brown skin. It didn't fit him well, large around the shoulders and short in the ankles. He'd buzzed his hair since Mal last saw him, no longer the tapered natural style he'd favored before. It brought his face, always his trump card when he got in trouble back on Shadow, into sharp relief.

"So, you made it through the gauntlet." Anders tossed his head back down the street, indicating 'prostitute row.' He smirked. "Congratulations."

Mal cocked his brow. "Isn't it a mite early to be congratulatin' me?"

Anders laughed again, and tightened his grip on Mal's shoulder, giving him a shake. "Don't worry. You'll do fine," he cooed. "'Long as you tell 'em what they wanna hear."

"And what's that?"

Anders grinned. He let go of Mal, with a push towards the entrance. A dark curtain obscured the interior, allowing only the murmur of voices and low, reverb-drenched music to seep through.

"Best not keep 'em waitin'." Anders bent his mouth to Mal's ear, as he ushered him through the doorframe. "First impressions count."

The image of Miss Serra crossed Mal's mind, brief as smoke. He shook his head, to clear it away, and stepped inside the bar.

/*/*\\*\

He recognized not a one of his superiors. Unfamiliar faces, all three of them, lit from beneath by the eerie glow of the tabletop. Mal sensed their eyes on him, sizing him up from foot to face, as he followed Anders to the cave-like booth in the back corner of the bar.

The man in the center of the booth was as stout as they come, short enough to show it even when sitting down, pudgy arms folded across his chest. He might have looked jolly, with the ruddy cheeks of an uncle who drinks too much at family gatherings, but for the stillness of his face.

Unsmiling, he introduced himself as Moran, and the others in turn. A woman, Latha, and a younger man, Cymbeline, who immediately insisted on Bel.

Latha glared at Mal with bored, heavy-lidded eyes. "This our man on Zhi? What is he, fifteen?"

"I'm nineteen," Mal shot back.

Bel leaned forwards, knitting his slim, pale fingers. "What she means to say, Malcolm, is that we admire your courage." His voice rounded in a lower-class variant of the prissy Core-world diction. He pursed his mouth, almost a smile.

Mal remembered what his mother used to tell him: _"There's two kindsa friendly, little colt. The kind that shows a person's heart, and the kind that hides it."_ Of the people seated at that table, there wasn't a single one Mal felt sure of. Except maybe Anders. _He might be an obnoxious_ niǎo rén, _but at least he's honest about it._

A round of drinks arrived. The server set in front of Mal a slender glass of what looked like anti-rust solution, a translucent and unnatural blue. The first sip tore him a new throat on its way down his windpipe. He coughed into his fist, blinking, as tears sprung to his eyes. Anders snickered.

The server paused at the edge of their table, and tapped a panel overhead, before she ducked away. A strange, high-pitched sound filled the air inside the booth. It muffled the ambient noise of the club by several layers of static. Mal's ears began to itch.

"Noise-cancellation," said Anders from the side of his mouth.

Mal raised his eyebrows. "Shiny."

Moran spread his hands on the table. "Let's start with a few pieces of advice, free of charge." He carved his words with precision, but his accent was impossible to place. "You've likely noticed a distinct… atmosphere, here on Sihnon."

Mal nodded. _The word 'suffocating' comes to mind,_ he thought.

"We have to be more careful than you're accustomed to, I'd imagine. There's no saluting, signaling, no allusions to the Independent persuasion. Doesn't matter where you are, nor how certain you may be of somebody's sympathies. This is Alliance turf. They hear and see everything."

"That's just fine." Mal smirked. "Forgot my brown coat at home anyway."

Latha narrowed her eyes at him. "You think it's a joke? Guess you didn't hear what happened last week, when they caught some drunk idiot singin' Hera's planetary anthem, right in the street."

Mal gave Latha a non-smile, and tilted his head. "Let me guess. The city guards cut out his tongue and made him eat it with hoisin sauce?"

"No." Latha took a sip of her drink, and set it down. "But they did crack his skull open, when they smashed it into the curb. Took sanitation an hour to clean up the mess."

Bel suggested they get down to business. Mal agreed.

Most of the questions were as he'd expected. They asked about the people who worked for Solomon Zhi, how many lived on the estate, what kind of work they did for him. Mal recounted his success with the cook and with Reese Sonder, the gardener, who liked to brag about the compliments his landscaping had received from various powerful people who'd come to visit Councilor Zhi. Naturally, Mal had provided him a willing audience.

He had no trouble explaining the invisible laser trip-wire system that surrounded the estate's perimeter. He knew it pretty well, because the horses' pasture abutted the edge of the property, and he walked the fence often to make sure it was secure.

"And the security set-up in the mansion itself?" Moran asked.

Mal shrugged. "No idea."

Moran's eyes narrowed. "Care to elaborate?"

"I've never stepped foot in that house, and there's no one I'd ask about it. The details of the security layout ain't exactly a small-talk topic."

"You'll hafta find a way." Latha sneered. "Or would you like us to tell Jo Mercey that you can't get a few simple security specs?"

Mal tightened his mouth. "Understood," he croaked. "I'll work on it."

"Have you spoken to Councilor Zhi yourself?" Bel asked.

"Not once."

Latha shook her head, taking another swallow of her drink. "All that land, all those horses. You'd think the man would at least bother to ride 'em once in a while."

"Actually, it's better that your interactions with him are limited," said Moran. "Don't do anything to distinguish yourself in front of the Councilor, nor anyone related to him, by business or by blood. If you carry off your mission well, you should be invisible." Moran tilted his head. "Speaking of which, has there been any sign of his daughter?"

Mal's face must have blanked, because Moran interpreted it in the negative, and went on, "Her name is Inara Serra. We don't know much about her, to be frank. She doesn't live with him, and she's not listed as a dependent in his tax records." Moran gestured to Latha, who dug into the inner pocket of her coat. Moran went on. "Their connection is kept quiet, for her own privacy, one would imagine. This is all we have, from the few times she's appeared in public with him."

Latha tossed the file on the table in front of Mal. He opened it.

A handful of captures showed Inara Serra at various ages, most from far away, in a tableau of Parliament officials posing with their families. The most recent, from maybe a couple years before, was of her and Councilor Zhi alone. It was the first time Mal had seen them side by side. She wore a red traditional dress, dark curls twirled up and held in place by a golden comb. She gleamed like a New Year's gift on her father's arm.

Mal realized the others were staring at him, expectant. He blinked, and said, "Oh, _her._ Yeah, uh- I met her." He cleared his throat. "A couple times."

"Do tell," Latha drawled.

He swallowed. "May've made a bit of an impression."

Moran leaned forward. "What sort of impression, exactly?"

Mal told them everything. From the rocky beginning up to the day before, when she'd brought him that 'probiotic ointment,' and he'd questioned her Good Samaritanism. He found himself fighting a blush. As if he was holding something back, keeping a secret, even though he wasn't.

When he'd finished, Anders started laughing.

"Oh, Lord, it's too good." His shoulders shook, as he leaned his mouth into his hand. He spoke in fits, between cackles, "Couldn't've set it up better if we'd tried."

Mal narrowed his eyes. _"What_ are you talkin' about?"

Anders gave him a shove on the shoulder. "Miss Serra's got flush for you." His grin was dirty enough to require a parental warning.

Mal opened his mouth to protest, but Latha spoke first. "Daddy's new stable boy, fresh from exotic lands. And your looks don't hurt." She raised her eyebrows. "Guess your youth counts for somethin', after all."

Mal's mouth hung open. _That can't be right,_ he thought. Not a girl like Inara Serra, who no doubt had her pick of Sihnon's handsome young inheritors. Not after she'd seen Mal drenched in sweat and manure. Especially not after the way he'd received her gesture of goodwill.

 _I don't_ want _her to like me_ , he reminded himself. The attention of an aristo hoping for a taste of the Border was attention he could do without _._

"This is a golden opportunity for you, Reynolds."

Mal scrunched his brow, and forced his eyes to focus on Moran. "Sorry?"

"You must earn Miss Serra's trust, by any means necessary."

Mal pulled his lips into his mouth. He ducked his eyes to the table, willed his heartbeat to slow down. "Are you sure that's-" He looked back up. "You sure she's worth the risk, sir?"

"Your work is risk, by definition," said Moran. "The value of the intel you stand to gain far outweighs the danger."

"Of course, you'll have to be careful," Bel put in, then perked up. "And speaking of careful…" His narrow shoulders hunched as he opened his jacket, and pulled something from the breast pocket. He tossed it to Mal, who caught the object in both hands. His brow shot up in surprise.

It was a book. Not much bigger than his palm, but a real, old-fashioned book. Printed on paper facsimile, no doubt, and bound up all pretty in blue fabric. The title gleamed in gold script, both English and Chinese.

' _The Covenant of the Union of Allied Planets for Representative Interplanetary Governance and Universal Concord,'_ it read. Mal couldn't hold back a scoff.

"My very own copy of the Covenant? Gee." He lifted it up, flashing Bel a dry smile. "You shouldn't have."

Bel's thick-lashed eyes stared back at him, solemn. "That's why you came to the big city, on your afternoon off. To find yourself a nice edition of the most important document in the Core."

"Ah. Right." Mal patted the cover. "I'll keep it under my pillow, like a good little Alliance citizen."

"As regards the next debriefing, we'll be in touch," said Moran. "We'll want the security layout, and a full update of your progress with Inara Serra." The man paused a moment, then added, "This should be obvious, but in case it isn't: you must proceed with caution on this. Don't overstep your boundaries."

"Least not 'til she steps first." Anders winked.

Moran gave Anders a look that could melt sand into glass. He turned it to Mal. "You certainly will not engage in physical relations, of any kind, with the Councilor's daughter." He laid down the words like steel nails. "You are to stay in control, and remember your mission, at all times. Are we clear, Brownie?"

Mal nodded. The nickname for new Browncoat recruits settled onto his shoulders with a certain weight. It felt good.

"Crystal," he said.

"Let's drink to that, then." Latha raised her glass. The others followed suit. " _Wǒ men shàng shēng."_ The cheer of the Independents, her voice quiet but fierce.

" _Wǒ men shàng sheng,"_ Mal echoed. He drank from his glass, and this time the burn was oddly pleasant in his throat. He drank deep, to let himself be cleansed by fire.

He drank to be rid of the small yet tenacious doubt clinging to his insides. The voice warning him that this order to befriend the Councilor's daughter, _but no more,_ was about to make his mission more difficult than he ever could have anticipated.

* * *

translations:

 _tiān cái_ \- geniuses

 _jùn nán -_ cutie; handsome boy

 _niǎo rén_ \- bastard; a**hole

 _Wǒ men shàng shēng -_ We rise

* * *

So as always, I'd love to hear any and all thoughts on this chapter, even if it's just that you're excited to see what happens next! I'm especially curious as to your impressions of Mal's contacts in the Independents. Anything that struck you as confusing, weird or not believable, please feel free to share. I find it difficult to write the resistance folks and their activities, so feedback on that aspect is especially helpful.

As you might guess, things only go downhill from here... but not right away. And there's quite a bit of Manara fluff/tension in the next couple chapters, so stay tuned for that. ;) Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you in the next chapter!


	10. Bound

Hey, hey! It's my birthday (I'm 21 today, what?) and thus seemed a fitting day for another update. While I'm writing this, one of my birthday presents is gazing at me from the foot of my bed - a giant poster of that promotional photo where Mal is holding Inara in his arms in that pretty golden hallway (yes, _that_ one, _you know the one)_ and it's as if they're encouraging me onward. So! On with the story!

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

BOUND

 _03 - 21 - 2506_

Summer, still in its nascent stage, hung like perfume over the fruit orchard behind the mansion. The air coated Inara's throat, sweet and heavy, as she breathed in.

"I must thank you again, Deomar, for coming here on rest day." Inara heard her father, close behind. "I lament the inconvenience it must have caused you."

"Not in the least," came the soft, reedy voice of his visitor. "The journey from Londinium to Sihnon is rather pleasant, on the new commuter-class ships."

"True," said Inara's father. "I would never trade my home here for one of the complexes in the Parliament district. One must keep his work and his leisure separate, or at least try. Besides, I could never bear to live so far from my _bǎo wù."_

Inara turned, pausing as the two men caught up. Her father loomed, not tall but lean, over his guest, whose deep blue Chancellor's robes dragged along the ground as he walked.

"Of course." Chancellor Sutherland beamed at Inara, cheeks rounding to match the rest of him: a squat, balding egg of a man. He twirled his spindly goatee as he spoke. "You've certainly benefited, dear, from having your father so close. A guiding presence, preparing you to enter Society."

"Yes." She smiled. "I'm very lucky."

"Yet talented as well, so I've been told. No doubt you inherited your mother's skill." His eyes glazed, tilting into the distance. "A remarkable woman, Kalindi Serra." He nodded to himself. "A shame you were too young to remember her."

"Yes." Solomon glared at the ground, hands clasped tight behind his back. "A great shame."

Inara pulled in a breath. "I can only hope to honor her memory in my career," she said, as smooth as she could.

Chancellor Sutherland took Inara's hand, giving it a pat. "You will, my dear. You will."

"It's hard to believe I'm so close to graduating. I feel as though I still have so much to learn." The words churned in her, and she released them in an outward rush. "About the state of the Universe, for example. I know almost nothing of the crisis on the Border planets, with the Independents."

"Darling." Her father gave a breathy laugh. "That it is not a topic you need concern yourself with."

"I'm not concerned. I'm curious."

They stopped walking. Both men turned to look at her. Solomon's dark brows peaked in warning.

She pushed on. "We're taught the value of a broad knowledge base, in politics as much as art and philosophy. I simply want to be informed."

Silence, brief yet dense, sank in. The Chancellor cleared his throat.

"That's noble of you," he offered.

"Quite." Her father didn't sound as though he meant it. He waved a hand. "But the situation is far too complicated to be distilled into dining room conversation."

"Rest assured that our capable leaders in Military Affairs have the issue well in hand," said the Chancellor. "Your father chief among them. Or soon-to-be chief, I should say."

"You flatter me, Deomar." Inara's father shook his head, with a smile. "It's a matter of making the connections, that's all." He laid a hand on Inara's shoulder. "With the right contacts, the help of this man, and enough luck, I'll have my Chancellor's robes by the time you graduate."

Inara summoned a smile, tilting it up to him. "May the forces of the Universe be favorably aligned."

He squeezed her arm. "My treasure, I hate to cut our visit short, but there are matters which the Chancellor and I must discuss."

"Of course, _Bàba."_ She turned to dip a curtsy to his visitor. "Chancellor."

"Miss Serra." Deomar bowed as deep as his rotund stature allowed, one arm across his front, the other behind his back. "Always a pleasure."

Inara turned and left the men in the fruit orchard, making her way around the side of the house, toward the front drive. It was early yet. She would wait in the rose garden for the Madrassa chauffeur to collect her, as she often did.

But after rounding the corner, Inara slowed. The murmur of lowered voices reached her ears. She chewed her lip. The wave of her father's hand, _"not a topic you need concern yourself with,"_ rankled in her, dragged her to a stop. She bent down, careful, to untie the ribbons laced around her ankles. She pulled her shoes off her feet.

Holding them in one hand, Inara crept back along the paved path. The Chancellor's voice grew louder, more distinct, as she got closer.

"You've heard the latest from the negotiations, I'm sure."

"Yes. Though any attempt to make those _hàozhàn_ Independents and their spineless planetary reps see reason is a complete waste of our time," Inara's father muttered.

Inara leaned closer, balanced on her toes, as far as she could without tumbling into their sight.

"I tend to agree." Sutherland sighed. "But there are many who would not. Among them, your opponent."

"Naturally," Solomon scoffed. "Lisboa Pan's 'peace and diplomacy' platform won her the Chancellor seat 12 years ago. Unfortunately for her, the Universe has changed a considerable amount since then."

With the shuffle of feet, their voices drew nearer. Inara's heartbeat caught in her throat. She didn't move, holding her breath.

"Nevertheless, she does have the Minister's ear," said Sutherland. "And last I heard, Pan has been suggesting a major overhaul and reform of the Unification Initiative."

The men's footsteps came to a halt.

"Then you see what's at stake here, Deomar." Her father's voice rose. "That initiative is the product of decades of work and careful planning. We can't let it be undone by the temper tantrum of a few delinquent Border dwellers."

The Chancellor grunted. "We certainly cannot."

"I need your help, to start making contacts," Solomon went on, fierce, ardent. "If we wait until I'm elected to begin preparations, it'll be too late. Surely you understand that."

Their footsteps began again, this time growing fainter, as they walked toward the rear veranda.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you, my friend." Sutherland's last words reached Inara as wisps of sound, barely rippling the dense summer air. "But I fear no one will be prepared for what's sure to come."

Inara held still, until the door leading into the house clicked shut. She rocked back on her heels, and let out a breath. Her eyes stuck in nothing. Words echoed, knocked together in her ears. _'What's sure to come,'_ the Chancellor had said.

 _And what would that be?_

Leftover adrenaline settled in her limbs, her heart pounding ahead of itself. She had turned away, to start back toward the front drive, when a high-pitched beep shattered the air not a meter from her head.

Inara shrieked. Her shoes flew out of her hands, to land on the pavement. The sound stopped, leaving a shrill neon imprint in the air. Inara froze, panting for breath, ears pricked. The alarm seemed to have come from the seven-foot hedge that lined the side of the house. She swallowed past the thud of her heartbeat, and drew nearer.

A flash of uncommonly blue eyes shone through the leaves. Inara gasped, and stumbled backwards.

"What in Buddha's name-" She breathed in and out, hand over her chest, before she mustered her worst glare. "I suppose hiding in shrubbery must be some traditional custom on Shadow, but you should really try to break the habit."

Wesley Gale pulled himself out of the bush. "I wasn't hiding." He brushed debris off his shoulders. A few twigs stuck out of the Mandarin collar of his service uniform. "I was, uh, tryin' to call up the groundskeeper."

Inara peered around his shoulder at the screen set into the wall of the house, barely visible through the hedge. "But isn't that a portal to the security mainframe?"

 _"Oh."_ He drew out the syllable through rounded lips. "Right." He glanced at it, then back to Inara. "Explains why I wasn't havin' much luck."

"You'll want a service panel." Inara pointed to the garden. "There's one just there. I could call him for you, if you like?"

"No, no, no." Wesley waved his hands, palms out. "Wouldn't want t'put you to any trouble." He smiled.

"Well." Inara returned it. "Please don't let me keep you."

He hesitated. "Yeah. Yeah, um. Here I go." He sidled past her, took two steps toward the Zen garden, then stopped. He spun 180 degrees on his heels, flashing Inara a half-grimace, half-grin. He snapped his fingers. "I just remembered he's not here. He's got some real urgent… appointment."

"Really." Inara tilted her head. "What sort of appointment?"

"You know, he didn't say. Therapy, I hope. He has a hard time expressing emotion." Wesley made a vague gesture at his chest. "Keeps it bottled up inside. Very unhealthy."

Inara nodded. "Right." She narrowed her eyes, locked with Wesley's, until he looked down at his boots. "You're a terrible liar," she said.

His eyes snapped to hers, blown wide. "What? No, honest, he- well, alright, maybe he didn't, exactly, uh…"

"You were eavesdropping on my father and Chancellor Sutherland." Inara crossed her arms. "Why?"

He stared at her a moment, mouth open. A change stormed over his face, nostrils flaring, the cords of his throat visible as he swallowed. "I ain't gonna let you accuse me-"

Inara lifted a hand. "Let me make this clear. Tell me what you were doing, or I'll call my father out here, and you'll answer to _him."_

The stable boy pulled his lips into his mouth. Inara sensed he could barely keep himself from spitting a volley of curses. He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck, before he lifted his eyes to hers.

"Alright. I'll tell you the truth." He sighed. "It's stupid, but since you already think I'm a Border-planet back-birth, I guess it don't matter none."

Inara frowned at this, but didn't interrupt.

"Davis told me yesterday that Councilor Zhi likes to take Chancellor Sutherland out riding when he comes to visit, which means I'd have to serve 'em in person. But I don't know a Chancellor from a chandelier." He pronounced 'chandelier' with a hard 'ch,' and Inara nearly choked, swallowing a laugh. He eyed her, and went on, "I was tryin' to… I dunno, find out how to address him, how to bow and scrape and all that. So I don't shame your father, and get myself fired."

Inara held him still a long moment with her eyes. He stared back without apology, with something else instead, keen and sincere. It seemed to disrupt the regular pattern of Inara's breath. She almost forgot what they were talking about, before he spoke again, voice low.

"So, you gonna call Councilor Zhi? 'Cause I'd really appreciate if you didn't."

Inara shook her head. "No. I won't."

He let out his breath. "Thank you. I know I don't deserve any kindness from you, after how I received it the last time." He gave her another head-on stare, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

"It's alright." Inara had to look away. _Expelled from the House._ Min Song's warning tapped at her mind. "I- I have to go." She moved past Wesley, maintaining as much distance between them as possible. "Please excuse me."

She made it three steps before he called out, "Wait."

Inara turned around, more sudden than she should have. He'd come up close behind, and momentum brought them within inches of collision. He stumbled to a halt, with a soft "Whoa." He smelled of horses, sweet hay and leather.

He held up Inara's shoes by the laces. "You forgot these." He gave her a crooked smile."Wouldn't get too far without 'em."

Inara took the shoes. She looked down at her bare feet, cheeks burning. "Thank you," she murmured.

He gestured to a nearby bench in the Zen garden, behind a large fountain of columnar basalt. "Here, you can sit down, while you, uh…" He faltered. "If you want."

"Thank you," Inara said again, and bit her cheek. Fine time for her conversational prowess to have abandoned her. She took a seat on the bench.

Wesley followed, with cautious steps. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," Inara lied. From the corner of her eye, she watched him sit on the opposite end of the bench, leaving a respectable gulf of air between them.

"Just killin' time, 'fore I gotta get back to work," he answered the question she hadn't asked.

Inara slowed her fingers, arranging the laces around her ankles. She swallowed, and started talking, before she could think better of it.

"A Chancellor occupies the highest position in his or her particular council of Parliament, and has certain powers, including the ability to propose or delay pieces of legislation. A chandelier is a ceiling ornament, usually made of glass or crystal."

Wesley crinkled his brow. "What?"

"The difference between a Chancellor and a chandelier." She straightened up, and tipped him a sideways glance. "For future reference."

He chuckled. "Okay. Good to know." A moment passed, before he turned to her. "So, what's Sutherland the Chancellor of?"

"Universal Relations."

"Huh." His brow lifted. "That's a whole lot for one Council."

"Yes. And it's arguably the most important Council in all of Parliament right now, with what's been going on."

"You mean," Wesley dropped his eyes, "the Independents, 'n all?"

Inara nodded. "Not that I know all that much about the situation."

He quirked an eyebrow. "That why you were eavesdropping?"

Her mouth tightened. She glanced away. "My father doesn't like to talk about it, when he doesn't have to."

"Yeah." Wesley's voice darkened. "Must be a real heartache for him."

"Well, surely not as much as it is for you."

His eyes struck hers. "What d'you mean?"

"If the chaos these people are causing can be felt even here, it must be horrible to live in the place where it's all happening." She watched his face as she spoke. "I can't even imagine."

He let out a mirthless chuckle, and shook his head. "Sorry. It's just- you're right. You really can't imagine what it's like."

"Are the Independents the reason you left Shadow?"

The stable boy leaned back, with a hard, false smile. "Nah. Told 'ya already, remember? I needed a job. Might be packing my bag a bit sooner than I planned, though, if I can't curtsy 90 degrees or whatever."

Inara gave him a soft look. "Service etiquette isn't all that complicated. Just make sure you address elected officials by their titles, and nothing else. Deomar Sutherland is always 'Chancellor,' and my father is 'Councilor.'"

"For now," said Wesley. He tilted his head at Inara. "Y'think it's likely he'll get elected Chancellor of Military Affairs?"

"Of course," Inara breezed. The easy, immediate answer. She bit her lip. "He usually gets what he wants."

Wesley looked thoughtful. "So, that it?" he said, after a moment. "I mean, is that all I need to know?"

"Not quite. If my father takes the Chancellor out riding, then their aides will come along, as well. The rules get a bit trickier with them."

Wesley groaned.

"You must show respect to the aides, but not the same level of respect that you show the elected officials. You should address both aides as 'Sir.' But you _can_ make eye contact with them, whereas you must always avoid eye contact with the Chancellor and my father."

"Are you serious-"

"Also, if you have to give something to a Parliament official, some piece of equipment, you can't hand it to them directly."

He scrunched his brow. "Why not?"

Inara hesitated. It had never once occurred to her to ask ' _why'_ when she was taught the rules of social hierarchy. "Because it's seen as a… a breach of status." She blushed.

"Okay." Wesley stretched the word. "What do I do, then, slide it across the ground?"

Inara's mouth twitched against a smile. "No. Give it to the aide, and the aide will hand it along."

Wesley laughed, a sound like none Inara had ever heard, rough yet warm, scratchy at the edges. She felt it in her chest, spreading outwards to fill her limbs.

She could barely hold down her own long enough to add, "And make sure you don't give it to the _wrong_ aide, because they can only hand things to their own boss."

"You're joking, right? That's ridiculous."

Inara shook her head, and said between giggles, "I'm not joking. Promise."

Wesley pulled a straight face, turning all the way toward her, one arm laid across the back of the bench. "So, say the Chancellor steps in horse manure. Does his aide have to get down and lick it off his shoe? Or does that honor fall to me?"

"Oh, no." Inara pulled her lips into her mouth, fighting a grin. "He'd leave the shoe there, and his aide would have to carry him around for the rest of the day."

"Piggy-back?"

"No, bridal-style."

They both broke into giggles again. Inara lost track of her body language, and his, unable to see anything past the open grin that filled his face, laughter shaking his shoulders.

At last she straightened back up, heat blooming in her throat and cheeks. "I think that covers it," she said, breathless. "Any questions?"

Wesley shook his head, grinning at her. "Gotta say, Miss, you're the _zhuàngyuan_ of etiquette tutors. In my humble opinion."

She ducked her eyes. "Thank you."

He shot to his feet. " _Bié zǒu_. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" Inara called, but he'd already gone. She sat still a moment, her mind clear of anything but the fading warmth of his presence. The hum of a land speeder engine made her stomach pitch forwards. She stood up.

The Madrassa chauffeur was waiting for her on the front drive. Inara couldn't afford to be late, not two Sundays in a row. Not after her conversation with Priestess Song. She turned to look back in the direction Wesley had run. Lucid thought smacked her like ice water.

The longer she stood there, the more difficult it would be to leave.

Inara turned and walked as quickly as her feet could carry her, out of the Zen garden, toward the front drive. She almost made it.

"Wait."

His voice was more air than sound, footsteps slowing from a run, to stillness. Inara stopped just before reaching the front of the house. She shut her eyes, for the briefest moment, and turned to face him.

"I have-" _to go,_ she started to say. The words dissolved in her mouth.

Wesley's cheeks were flushed, chest heaving with the force of his breath. He held something out to her with both hands.

"This is for you," he breathed. "Sort of a thank you, if y' like."

Inara's mouth hung open as she took it from him. A book, in the style of ancient times, small and finely made, bound in blue. Gold text spelled the title, as formal and familiar as any in the Core.

"The Covenant?" She snapped her eyes to his, unable to hide her surprise.

"I was in the city on my afternoon off, and I bought it to have somethin' to read, but-" He shrugged, looking down at his boots. "Thought you might like it. I'd imagine you got the whole thing memorized, but it's a copy of your own, all proper and old-fashioned. Well, printed on paper facsimile, but-"

"It's lovely," she cut him off, smiling. "Thank you, Wesley."

He returned her smile, a bit lopsided. "You c'n call me Mal, y'know."

Inara's throat twisted. _I wish I could._ She looked down at the book. _And I wish I could take this._ She swallowed, looking back up to Mal- _Wesley._

"Have you read it?" she asked.

He nodded, before Inara arched her brow, and he commenced to shaking his head.

"You should." She held it out to him. When he didn't move, she added, "I think you'd find it very… instructive."

"I imagine that's true." Wesley took the book from her, reluctant.

Inara summoned her warmest smile. "Consider it your first homework assignment."

"First?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Does that mean there'll be more?"

Inara's smile didn't waver. "We'll see."

"Well, then. I'd best get to studyin'." He lifted the book, as he started walking backwards, half-turned away. "See you around, Miss Serra."

"Goodbye, Wesley."

Only after she'd turned around did Inara let her smile fall, as she left the estate behind. She left empty-handed, light-headed, yet full of something she couldn't name. She crossed her arms over her chest, to keep it safe inside her, and stared unseeing out the windows of the speeder, all the way back to the House.

* * *

translations:

 _hàozhàn_ \- belligerent (said of a country/entity of people)

 _zhuàngyuan_ \- the very best in a certain field of study or occupation

 _Bié zǒu -_ 'Don't leave'

* * *

*sigh* I love writing fluff with these two. (Even if Mal is kinda faking it for the sake of his mission...) It's so fun to imagine how it could've been before they went and broke each other's hearts. _Also,_ to anyone who might be annoyed by Mal getting called 'Wesley' over and over in Inara's POV - I promise this is the last chapter where that happens.

If you liked this chapter, please let me know in a review! It would be the best birthday gift I could ask for. :D The next two chapters are definitely the "calm before the storm," so enjoy it while it lasts, and brace yourselves. I'll see you in Chapter 11 - until then, stay shiny! ✧


	11. Contact

Here we are in Chapter 11, and for the first time ever, _actual_ _horses_ will be making an appearance. In all honesty, I avoid writing them because I have so little experience with horses (I'm actually kind of terrified of them) so... apologies in advance if my portrayal of equine behavior takes more artistic license than it should.

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CONTACT

 _Late April, 2506_

"Think she'll ever come?"

Mal ran the brush down Babylon's white-speckled back, rubbing the horse's neck with his other hand. Babylon's ear swiveled toward the sound of Mal's voice. He turned his head to wink with one dark eye, and huffed out through his nostrils.

"Yeah." Mal curled one side of his mouth, grim. "I don't think she will, either."

Over a month had crawled by, and there had been not a word, not a sign, of Inara Serra. Maybe she hadn't fallen for Mal's act after all, the blushing and bumbling he'd put on after she caught him out. A _partial_ act, if he was honest. Seemed she brought out certain bumbling and blushing qualities in him.

His excuse had come out flimsy, but it seemed to have worked. Miss Serra hadn't swished away, nose in the air, as Mal had expected. She'd started talking to him, instead. She'd almost taken the gift he'd tried to offer her. _A stupid idea, anyway._

She made words come too easy. Maybe it was the way she asked him questions, about the Independents _,_ no less. With slight gestures and the upward lilt of words, she cast a net around him. Delicate, strong as spider silk, and twice as deadly. Mal had come to his senses, thank God, just in time.

He might've written it off as high-society small talk, if he hadn't overheard her minutes before, trying her father and the Chancellor. _'I simply want to be informed,'_ she'd told them.

Mal shook his head, and moved around Babylon to refill his water dispenser. "Why she's so keen to know what's happening outside the Core?" he said aloud. "Makes no gorram sense. And it's more than a mite unsettlin'."

Mal shut off the water and turned around, digging in his pocket for a biscuit to offer Babylon. It vanished between velvety lips. Mal rubbed the horse's forehead.

"She's trouble, Red," he murmured.

He hadn't meant to give Zhi's calmest horse, and Mal's favorite, the same nickname he'd given Ready Boy. Almost four years since he'd last said it aloud, yet it fit right somehow. Babylon looked nothing like Ready Boy, of course. He was too long and thin, his red roan coat bright with the metallic sheen that characterized the Luxa breed. But his gaze held a familiar light, watching Mal, knowing.

"Yeah, don't give me that look." Mal dug another treat from his pocket. "Y'think I don't know I'm in some deep _fèn_ here?"

Babylon stepped forward to take the biscuit, ducking his dark copper head. Mal leaned back against the wall, and sighed.

He may have earned a couple of Brownie points at his last debriefing a week before, thanks to the Chancellor's visit. But they only wanted more. The shift in the air had been palpable, a steep drop in temperature, when Mal relayed the conversation he'd overheard.

 _"You must find out whom Zhi's so eager to make contacts with,"_ Moran had said. _"But most important, we need more about the man himself. We need to know exactly who it is we're dealing with."_

Mal had already given them every detail he could conjure about the Councilor, as far as his manner and personality. He gave off the impression of an actor in one of those Core-produced dramas, smooth and assured, his fine grey suit free of wrinkles. His smile aspired to make the recipient feel as though he were the only person Zhi smiled at like that.

To tell true, it turned Mal's stomach. Zhi's smile was an older, harder version of Inara Serra's.

The debriefing had almost ended without a mention of her. Zhi's ominous activities were nearly enough of a distraction for Mal's superiors to forget their orders concerning the man's daughter.

But no such luck. Latha had been the one to bring her up. _"The surest way we learn more about Zhi is through his own flesh and blood."_

They were all in agreement. One way or another, Mal had to get to Miss Serra.

He left Babylon's stall, dragging his feet toward the last in the aisle, the one that belonged to Colossus.

The name fit him well. He was huge, for a Luxa, muscles rippling under an iridescent black coat. Unfortunately for Mal, the gelding's size was matched by his attitude. Liable to enrage at the slightest misstep, he played tyrant to the other horses, starting fights if he perceived a threat to his dominance.

"Hey, Easy," Mal greeted Colossus as he entered the stall. The nickname was half a joke, and half because Mal had to tell him _'easy, boy'_ so often that it might as well have been his name. "We're not gonna make any trouble today, are we?"

Colossus snorted into his food trough, with a swish of his glimmering tail.

Mal chuckled. "I'll take that as a 'yes, sir.'"

He kept talking, low and smooth, as he tidied up the stall. Silas had taught the importance of a running 'chore commentary.' It didn't matter what he talked about, as long as he kept it up, to establish his presence and help Colossus track his movement, to lower the chances of the horse getting jumpy.

"I've been thinking a fair bit, lately. Got nothin' else to do down here. And y'know what I think, Easy? The Allied Planets' dearly beloved Covenant could be half its size, if they'd just written it straight, without all the 'hereby's' and 'wheretofore's.'" Mal shrugged, and picked up the brush. "But they couldn't make it too easy for normal folk to understand. That'd be missing the whole point."

The brush tended to shorten Colossus' temper by a considerable amount. Mal let him see it, and moved slow, running it over the horse's shoulder. For the first time, Colossus relaxed under the brush. He dipped his large black head, with a sigh.

Mal rubbed the side of his neck. "Good boy, Easy," he murmured. "That's a good boy."

"That's amazing."

Mal jumped, and dropped the brush. _"Je_ sus-" He fumbled to catch it mid-air, making Colossus tense up, as Mal spun around. He knew exactly whom he would see, but shock still slackened his jaw.

Inara Serra rested her elbows on top of the stall door, chin in her hands. Her dark curls were pulled into a knot atop her head, leaving a few wisps to escape around her ears and neck. Her eyes were wide, wondrous, watching Mal.

"No one's ever been able to calm that horse," she said simply, as if continuing a conversation. "My father can barely ride him. The last stable hand thought he should be sold, but my father never could bring himself to do it."

"Yeah, he's, uh… he's a mite unpredictable." Mal cast Colossus a wary glance. The horse didn't seem to mind Inara's sudden appearance. Maybe because he knew her. Maybe because she had some magic power over every living creature in her presence. Mal glared at her. "Not the wisest idea to sneak up when I'm in his stall."

"I'm sorry." There it was. That _nǐ niáng de_ smile. "I won't do it again. But I couldn't bear to interrupt your book report."

Mal tried to be irritated with her. He really did. His will dissolved, melting into a warm place in the pit of his stomach. "Oh, yeah?" he tossed out, like couldn't care less if she'd heard him carrying on a one-sided conversation with a horse.

Her smile compressed into a smirk. "I'm impressed that you actually read it."

"Yes." Mal went back to brushing Colossus. "I do, in fact, know how to read."

He could almost hear her wince. "That's not what I meant."

Mal let her stew in silence for a beat, before casting a glance over his shoulder. "Gotta say, Miss Serra, I'd almost given up on you."

"I know. I'm sorry." She lifted off the door and stepped back, ducking her head. "I wanted to come earlier, but I… couldn't get away."

"They must keep you busy up at your diplomacy school."

"Yes." It took her a moment to look up, into his eyes. "Very busy."

"Well, I'm glad you did." Mal turned all the way around, to rest his elbows on top of the door, where hers had been. It brought him a little closer than he meant. "Manage to get away, that is."

"Me, too." She turned aside, to cast her eyes over the barn. "I haven't ridden for years. I'd forgotten how much I like being in here. It's so calm and quiet, almost like a temple." She took a breath. "I like the way it smells."

"When I'm not doing a full muck-out of the stalls, you mean?"

"Yes." Inara flashed a smile. "But here I am again, interrupting your chores."

"Not at all. I just finished."

"In that case…" She hesitated. "Perhaps you could tell me what you thought of the Covenant." Her eyes settled in his, as if to read something out of him. "I'm curious."

A flicker of distrust lit in Mal's chest. And with it, the nagging sense that this, talking in low voices over the stall door with the Councilor's daughter, was a terrible, terrible idea.

But Moran's voice echoed in his ear. _"You must earn Miss Serra's trust, by any means necessary."_

So Mal gave her another smile, and dipped his head. "As you like, Miss Serra. But we can't talk like this."

"Why not?" She spoke a pitch above a whisper.

"Well, uh…" Mal dropped his gaze. He lifted up off the edge of the stall, and took a step back. "For one thing, Davis could barge in any second with a whip about me taking meals with the cook again, or some other such nonsense. I'd hate for you to see him chew me out."

Inara's brow lifted. "You take meals with Galileo Shen?"

"Yeah, sometimes." Mal left Colossus' stall, shutting the door behind him. "He's a nice guy, and it beats the hell out of eating my protein dinner alone in my bunk." He winced. _Pathetic._ He shifted tack. "I'm impressed you actually know the man's name."

"Shen has been working for my father for almost twenty years. Of course I know his name." She lifted her chin. "I like to visit him in the kitchen, as well, when I can."

"Well, shoot." Mal smirked. "I thought I was special."

"You are-" She cut short, with a shake of her head. "You are fishing for compliments," she finished, sharp. "So if we aren't safe from Davis here, where will we talk?"

Mal considered. "There's a bench out back, on the wall of the barn. If you like, we could…" he trailed off.

"Yes." Inara smiled, open, pure. "I would like that very much."

/*/*\\*\

"A license to play God?"

Inara was seated, looking up at Mal, her neat dark brow furrowed.

"Yep." Mal had lifted one foot onto the bench, leaning forward on his knee. "That's all it is."

"I hope you're prepared with evidence to support such a claim."

"'Course I am." Mal flipped through the small blue book in his hands, until he came to the right page. He cleared his throat. "' _The Bill of Universal Human Rights is the central and foundational document by which all policy must be measured, and will serve as foremost consideration in the realm of interplanetary law._ '" He tilted his eyes at Inara, adding, "Here's where they get tricky," before he read on. "' _Its prepotency is such that the Bill supersedes all other concerns, including the sovereignty of lesser governing bodies, of planetary status or otherwise_."

Inara blinked at him. "And?"

"And?" Mal waved the book. "They're giving themselves free reign over the whole 'Verse. Just 'cause they got this piece of paper which, by the way, they _also_ wrote themselves, that means the Alliance gets to stomp all over 'lesser governing bodies.'" He snapped the book shut. "What's so right about that?"

"The Bill of Universal Human Rights is more than a 'piece of paper,'" Inara shot back, heated. "It's the heart of the Covenant, of all policy ever written by Parliament for the last four hundred years."

"Yeah, I read it. _Bù zěnyàng_. None of it justifies ignoring a planet's sovereignty."

"And what if that planet's government is committing war crimes?" Inara threw out a hand. "What if it kills or mistreats its citizens?"

"Well, that's…" Mal knit his brow. "That's beside the point."

Inara kept going. "As inhabitants of the Universe, we are all of us granted certain inalienable rights, no matter where or how we are born. That's what the Bill ensures. Right to life, to dignity, and-"

"Sure, okay." Mal shrugged a shoulder. "That's all shiny, in theory. But in real life, it don't always work out that way."

Inara's eyebrows arched high. "I have to say, Wesley, it sounds as though you're against the Unification Initiative." Her face softened, but her eyes didn't. "Why?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was a question. She stared at him, expectant.

Mal swallowed. _Careful, now._ "'Against' is a… strong word." He tilted his gaze out toward the pasture, where the horses grazed, roaming only as far as the fence allowed. "I ain't never taken too well to authority figures, that's all. Don't matter who they are."

"I believe that." A smile curled Inara's voice. "But you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the Covenant. It's done a wealth of good for humankind."

"Really." Mal sat down on the bench beside her. He leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee. "And how's that?"

"On Earth-That-Was, there were constant wars, and humanitarian crises, and little could be done about them. But the Covenant allowed us to advance beyond all that. There's no need for violence, no squabbling over resources, not when there's a standardized system of distribution that ensures universal health and education."

Mal knew she was wrong. But to hear her voice, so sweet and sure, safe within her sheltered view of the 'Verse, he found it hard to contradict her. A dozen counter-arguments sprang to mind, of course, not least the 'squabbling over resources' that the Alliance itself had spearheaded on his own planet, but Mal knew it'd do him no favors to bring that up.

Inara leaned closer, demanding his eyes. "Unification will bridge the gap, which you pointed out yourself, between theory and reality. The Covenant promises its protection to everyone in the Universe. But only when all the planets are unified will the Alliance be able to fulfill that promise."

Mal frowned. "Seems to me that no one group of people should be able to sit around a table and make that kinda decision."

"If you're referring to the 624 members of Parliament, they didn't simply crawl out of the ground." Inara's voice cooled. "There are elections every twelve years. Which, I might point out, is more frequent than the local council elections on your home planet."

Mal's brow shot up. "You've studied Shadow? At your diplomacy school?"

"A bit," she said lightly. "I've read its Constitution."

"Have you now." He smirked, to hide his surprise, and turned toward her on the bench. "And what is your expert opinion?"

"It values individual freedom too highly. At the expense of safety and social stability, one might argue."

"Maybe." Mal dropped his voice, leaning toward her, as far as he dared. "But I'm willin' to bet, Miss Serra, that _you_ value individual freedom more than you're free to admit."

She stared at him. They were close enough that Mal could hear her breath, falling through parted lips. "Why do you say that?" she asked.

"You came all the way down here, just to talk to me." He tilted his head. "Even though I'm likely not the kinda friend you're supposed to have."

A spark caught in her eyes. "No one tells me whom I can be friends with."

"Good," said Mal. "You oughta be able to decide that for yourself."

They held course a moment, straight into each other's eyes, before Inara looked away. "I didn't come here only to talk to you, anyway. I came for my gift."

"Ah. Right." Mal picked up the book from the bench between them, and brushed off the cover. "Thanks again, for the etiquette lesson," he said, handing it over. "I'd say I have a real shot at not gettin' fired."

"I'm glad." She shot him a sideways glance. "It would certainly be a shame, if you were."

"Would you miss me, Miss Serra?" He twirled the question into something coy.

She stood up, holding the book to her chest. "Please." She smiled. "Call me Inara."

"Uh. Sure." He stood with her, helpless against a sudden grin. "Inara," he added, just to try it out. The name already felt well-worn in his mouth. Three descending syllables, round and soft, like prayer beads.

"I should really be going." She ducked her head, picking up her feet, to slip between the open barn doors.

Mal followed after her. "Will I see you next Sunday?"

"Maybe," she offered, without turning around.

He caught up, and trotted backwards alongside her. "Don't make me hide in the rose garden again, and ambush you."

She flicked her eyes to his. "But I thought you enjoyed doing that." She picked up her pace, leaving him behind. Over her shoulder, she added, "I'll try to spare you the trouble."

Mal stopped in the aisle, to watch her go. "Until then, Inara," he called out.

"Goodbye, Mal."

He stood there, boots stuck to the floor, for a long while after she'd gone. All he could hear was the thud of his heartbeat, and the echo of his real name in her voice.

* * *

translations:

 _fèn -_ excrement

 _nǐ niáng de -_ damn, f*cking

 _Bù zěnyàng_ \- 'Nothing special,' 'I'm not impressed'

* * *

Oh you know, just friendly ideological debates and some harmless flirting. What could possibly go wrong?

I would really love to hear any thoughts about this chapter! Any readers with horse expertise willing to give me your honest take? But horse expert or no, anyone is qualified to give their opinion on the story thus far. Concerns, complaints, suggestions? I'm worried that this part is a bit, well, uneventful... but Mal and Inara deserve at least a brief period of (relative) happiness before it gets snatched away, right?

By the way, I hope to get my act together and return to a weekly/bi-weekly update schedule soon. We'll see how that goes. Hope to see you all in Chapter 12!


	12. Sanctuary

Alright, we're back to a weekly (ish) schedule again! But first, I want to take a moment to give an big warm thank you to everyone who has left reviews, follows and favorites on this story so far - especially reviews. You are all so kind and encouraging, and your words are the best motivating fuel I could ask for.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

SANCTUARY

 _May, 2506_

Afternoon's warmth reached Inara through a prism of glass, through the windows that stretched to the vaulted ceiling of her father's parlor. The sun poured over the sheet music on the stand before her. It dripped down each taut string between her hands, making it appear as though she were plucking threads of light itself.

Inara broke with the correct posture, bending over the harp. The melody tugged her forward, head ducked against the gusts of rippling scales. She lifted up, as her fingers slowed at the upper register. The glisten of the highest pitches lingered in the air. Only once they evaporated did Inara begin the next section.

Usually, Madame Cheberell hovered over her, prompting Inara to curl her fingers more, to count, keep her shoulders even, _you're getting ahead of the beat, Inara._ But in that moment, she was alone with the music. The final chord, soft and stark, caught her by surprise.

The applause of her lone audience member jarred her. Inara opened her eyes.

"Beautiful, my dear." Her father sat close by, one elbow perched on the plush arm of his chair. He rested his chin on his hand. "Simply beautiful."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"You've prepared very well. You could take your performance exam tomorrow, if you wanted to."

Inara shook her head, with a small laugh. "Thank goodness I have two more weeks." She gathered her music from the stand, and stood up. "I should already be memorized."

"You are. You didn't look at a single note." Her father's eyes crinkled. "Have faith in yourself."

Inara dropped her eyes. Priestess Song had said something very similar a week earlier, before Inara gave a tour of the House to a group of prospective trainees, a task usually entrusted to the Priestess herself. _"Each day I am more impressed by your understanding of this House, and of your place in it,"_ Min had said afterwards, and Inara had flushed with pride.

Her father stood and held his arms out, to pull her into him. Inara let herself be enveloped. His warmth was dimmed by the stiff fabric of his suit.

"I'm sorry I've had so little time to give you lately," he murmured. "This session of Parliament has been… the most intense, and most frustrating, of my career. And it won't let up anytime soon, I'm afraid."

"It's alright." Inara rested her head on his shoulder. "You're doing important work."

"I only wish everyone would see it that way," he sighed into her hair. "Commander Vorman is coming to meet with me this afternoon, and I'm afraid you can't join us. I hate to shorten our time together, but I need this meeting." His words broke off in chips, urgent. "I need good people on my side. Brave people."

Inara pulled back, to look up at him. "For what?" she asked.

Something in him burned, raw and peeling at the edges, smudged into the thumbprints of insomnia below his eyes.

"To prepare for a new Universe, my _xiǎo_ _bǎo wù,_ " he answered.

Inara bit her lip, eyes dropping to his lapel, which she straightened with hesitant fingers. _"Bàba,"_ she started. "I have something to tell you."

"Oh? What a coincidence. So do I." He gave her a nod. "You first."

"Well, first I should say I didn't mean to keep it a secret this long. But I didn't want to tell you until I was sure of it, and now… I think I'm sure."

Solomon's brow arched. " _Tiān a_. This sounds serious."

Inara took in a breath, and let it out. "Priestess Song is going to offer me the Apprenticeship, when I graduate. She's chosen me to succeed her."

Her father stood unmoving, eyes not quite level with hers. At last, he stepped back. A smile bent his lips. "Of course she did." He turned away. "I imagine she's tricked you into thinking you want this as much as she does."

Inara's mouth fell open. "I _do_ want it. It's an honor to even be considered, and the opportunity to train with her would be-"

"Don't misinterpret what I'm saying." Solomon's eyes bore into hers. "You would make an excellent Priestess. But that's not why Min chose you."

"Then why?"

Her father sighed, and stepped toward the window. The sun poured over him, set him alight by the edges. "Min and I have a history you can't fully understand," he said, quiet. "It began a long time ago."

Inara swallowed. "You mean, when my mother…"

"This isn't about Kalindi." Solomon's voice struck like a match against stone, before quieting again. "I'm talking about Min. She tried to keep you from me, Inara. It was years before I could win visitation rights, so thick was the legal shell she constructed."

"What?" Inara knit her brow. "Why would-"

"She wanted you all to herself." His hand cut the air. "To raise you as her own, to mold and shape you in her likeness, and now that's exactly what she's doing. Your talent could make ripples across the Universe, but Min wants to keep you tucked away inside Madrassa. To spend your prime years doing paperwork and leading meditation sessions."

Heat prickled in the corners of Inara's eyes, up her throat. "I thought you would be proud."

"My darling, I am." He came close, to rest a hand on her shoulder. "I have been, all along. But you won't become everything you could be, if you consign yourself to the Priestesshood."

Inara ducked her eyes. Her father deflated, pushing air through his nose.

"Now I understand why she granted my request," he muttered. "She thinks she's already won."

"What request?"

"Min agreed to let me host your graduate celebration, in the week leading up to your final examination before the Guild." His voice rose. "It will be here, and mark my words, it'll be the most magnificent party Sihnon has ever seen. I'll make sure of it."

Inara's stomach pitched, as if to leave her body. "But- surely you have enough to worry about. You don't need to take this on, as well."

"I want to." He caught her hands in his, and gave them a squeeze. "You'll have the entrance into Society that you deserve, and you'll see the galaxy of possibilities that exist. Then you'll feel differently about sequestering yourself inside House Madrassa for the next 25 years of your life."

Inara cinched her mouth tight. "I thought _you_ said I shouldn't leave Sihnon."

"Yes, and I stand by it. You won't need to." Her father's smile stretched thin, impatient. "I'll introduce you to influential people from all corners of the Core. You'll form your network now, then settle into an elite Companion establishment, and let the Universe come to you."

He crossed the room to the central table. He tapped the surface, to awaken the embedded holo-screen projector. "I already have a tentative schedule of entertainment for the first three nights…"

Inara's eyes widened. "The first _three?"_

"Yes, yes," he said, distracted, manipulating the holo-screen. "It'll last the entire week leading up to your ceremony. How else could I invite everyone you need to meet?"

Inara chewed her lip. She'd attended parties at her father's estate before. They were bright and extravagant works of art: choreographed, beautiful, but above all, insincere. It was impossible that a gathering of several hundred near-strangers could be anything else.

 _"Bàba."_ She took hold of his arm, making him stop and look at her. "A week-long society party is not what I imagined for my celebration." Her voice went light, careful. "Besides, I don't want to… take advantage of your position, for my own personal gain."

Her father made a short, harsh sound, not quite a laugh. "Inara. There is nothing wrong with a bit of networking. Let me show you what your future could be. You don't have to settle for a weighty title, in a career with no ladders to climb. That's not what you want, is it?"

Inara half-turned away. She crossed an arm over her chest, to grip her shoulder. It took a moment for her to calm her breath, measure it, in and out of her nose.

She couldn't answer him.

"I see your point," she said, with an almost-smile. "I'm sure the party will be wonderful. Thank you."

Her father's smile was solid and sure, as he drew close to her. "I'm glad that we agree." He lifted his hand, and tucked a curl behind her left ear. His fingers brushed over her golden earring, studded with the Alliance emblem. "You see, Inara, it's important to have faith in yourself. But you must also have faith in me."

"I do." The words fell soft, but heavy. Inara met her father's eyes, and leaned her cheek into his touch.

"Forgive me, darling." Solomon dropped his hand, and closed the holo-screen with a flick of his wrist. "I have to prepare for my meeting with the Commander." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Can you see yourself out?"

Inara nodded. But her father didn't see her, sweeping out of the room. She slipped her sheet music into her cross-body bag, and slung it over her chest. There was time yet, before she had to return to House Madrassa.

She made her escape, out from under the weight of marble and arched ceilings, toward the low wooden rafters of the barn.

/*/*\\*\

Inara found him in the center aisle, bent over a saddle hung on a sawhorse, wiping down the leather with wax sealant. He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing sun-freckled forearms. He straightened when she walked in, and used the back of his wrist to push his hair off his brow.

"Well, if it isn't Ambassador Serra." He smiled.

Inara took what felt like her first full breath of the day. "Hello, Mal."

"Easy wants to say hello, too." Mal nodded to the horse, who had stuck his huge black head over the door of his stall. "Provided you got a biscuit for him."

"Of course." Inara grinned.

The week before, they'd started a program to acclimatize Colossus to positive human interaction. Inara was an ideal candidate, as the horse seemed to like her better than most people.

"Where would I find this biscuit?"

"Oh, uh- Well." Mal looked down at his hands. Both were covered in sealant, slick and glistening. "I'd get one for you, but I'm a tad indisposed."

"I'm capable of fetching a biscuit."

Mal kept a straight face, motionless. "They're in my pockets."

"Oh." She hesitated, biting back a smirk. "Do you mind?"

"'Course not," he said, a bit too quickly. "Go 'head."

Inara sidled up next to him. He was taller up close, more substantial, with a natural warmth that poured off him like an aura. His eyes flicked to hers, then away. A muscle pulled taut in his neck, when she slipped her hand into his pocket. Inara tried not to notice the hitch in his breath, as she dug a moment, before pulling out a biscuit.

She crossed the aisle to Colossus' stall, and forced her own breath to return to normal. The biscuit balanced in the valley of her palm. She flattened her hand, offering it to the horse.

"Hold it lower."

Inara gave a little jump. She looked over to find Mal watching her. He nodded, encouraging. "You wanna make him bend his head to get it."

Inara turned back to Colossus, and offered the treat again, per Mal's instruction. "This is for you, Easy."

The horse demurred. Inara modulated her voice into the most soothing tone she knew. "This is for you, because you're a very pretty boy, and you're learning how to be friendly, so you can live up to your nickname."

Colossus decided he valued the biscuit more than his pride, and dipped his head to take it from Inara's palm. She smiled at the tickle of his whiskery lips.

"Nicely done," said Mal. "You oughta forget politics, and consider a veterinary career. You have the touch."

At the mention of careers, Inara's conversation with her father came flooding back to her. "Thank you," she said, quiet.

"Alright." Mal planted his hands on the seat of the saddle and fixed his eyes in hers. "Somethin's wrong."

Inara went to shake her head, then stopped. She let her shoulders fall. "How could you tell?"

Mal raised an eyebrow. "'Cause you just said 'thank you,' insteada givin' me some smart, condescending response."

"Well, I-" Inara cut short. She frowned. "Condescending? When have I ever been condescending?"

Mal laughed. "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"

Inara took the tall stool down from its hook on the wall, and pulled it over to the sawhorse, sitting down. "It's just… a difference of opinion. Between me and my father."

"Yeah?" Mal went back to rubbing sealant into the saddle. "What about?"

Inara stalled, as she took off her bag, and let it drop to the ground. She watched Mal work for a moment. His question hung in the air between them.

"I'm graduating in October," she said at last.

He betrayed no reaction. Not a flicker.

Inara bit her lip. "Anyway. My father's decided he's going to host my celebration. And I don't want him to."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, it breaks with tradition. At Ma- that is, at my diplomacy academy, the graduate celebration is always in the same place, at the school. Only the graduate's instructors, family, and closest friends are invited. It's small, and intimate."

Mal curled one side of his mouth. "'Lemme guess. The Councilor doesn't do small."

"It's going to last a week. Feasts and entertainment and dancing for seven nights straight. And the whole purpose is to- to _parade_ myself in front of the most powerful people in the Core. To make connections, and advance my career."

"Already?" Mal's brow crunched. "You ain't even started yet."

"I'd prefer my celebration to be quiet, and personal." Her voice thickened, filling her throat. "But my father has other ideas."

Mal frowned. "Why don'tcha just tell him 'no?'"

"I tried. He's very insistent about what he wants." Inara looked down at her lap. "I learned a long time ago to pick my battles."

"This sounds like a battle worth fightin' to me."

"He won't listen. He- he's very… difficult to argue with."

Mal chuckled under his breath.

"What's so funny?"

"You." He smirked. "You're so buttoned up and polite, perched on top of that stool, tellin' me your father is 'difficult to argue with.' He ain't down here, is he?" Mal tossed out a hand. "You're mad at him. I can tell. So say it, say what you really feel. Forget about bein' diplomatic, for two minutes."

"I…" Inara struggled for words. She crossed her arms. "I am not _buttoned up."_

He shrugged his eyebrows. "Then prove it, Coreworlder."

Inara's mouth pinched. "My father-" She hesitated. "He's just a _lǎo wán gù."_

Mal laughed again, louder this time, bending over the sawhorse. "Oh Lord above, that was cute." He lifted back up, eyes aglow.

" _Now_ who's being condescending?" Inara snapped, tamping down the flutter in her chest.

"Come on." He turned toward her, resting a hand on the horn of the saddle. "You can do better than that."

Inara narrowed her eyes at him. "My father is big _ègùn_ and I wish he'd stay out of my life."

Mal scoffed. "Don't believe you."

" _Guān wǒ pì shì_ whether you believe me or not." Suddenly, Inara didn't have to put any volume into her voice, it was already there, pushing itself out of her in a rush. She got to her feet. "I'm so fed up with him, with _everything,_ I could- I could scream."

Mal's mouth twitched against a smile. "He's a real _hùnzhàng."_

Inara's eyes flew wide. "Mal!" she burst, breathless.

"Go on." He gave an upward nod. "Say it."

" _Hùnzhàng."_ She could barely make herself whisper it.

His eyes sparked. "Louder."

Inara made fists, and threw the word like a stone. _"Hùnzhàng!"_

He grinned. " _Wǒ niǎo tā de,"_ he spat, with relish.

" _Wǒ niǎo tā de."_ Inara grinned back. She'd never even dared to think language like this before, and it inflated in her chest, buoyant and full. _"Wǒ niǎo tā de!"_ That time, she tossed it downwards, and kicked the ground.

They stared at each other a moment, Inara's breath falling heavy through her mouth. Then they both started laughing at once. Inara collapsed back against the stool, helpless. It took a few minutes before they could meet each other's eyes without giggling.

"I got an idea," said Mal, when he could speak. "Since I can't afford your etiquette lessons, maybe we could do a trade." His smile was nothing short of devious. "You teach me how to curtsy, I teach you how to curse."

The remains of laughter pressed at the corners of Inara's mouth. She shook her head. "I'm afraid I wouldn't have much opportunity to practice."

"But you feel better now, right?"

"Yes." She took a deep, even breath. "Oddly enough, I do. Thank you," she added. "Not for the cursing, just for… listening."

He tipped her a mock salute. "Ever at your service, Ambassador."

Her smile wavered, and fell. Mal didn't notice, already back to his work. Inara gathered her bag from the floor, and shrugged it over her shoulder, before she turned around.

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

He looked up at her.

Inara kept going, before she lost her nerve. "It makes me feel like you're only talking to me because you have to. As though you're under orders."

"That's nonsense," Mal scoffed. "Who'd order me to talk to you?"

"I didn't say it made sense. It's just- oh, never mind."

"No." He met her eyes. "I will mind. I'm sorry."

"It's alright." Inara looked away, overcome by the sheer blueness of his gaze. "I… I'd better go."

"Yeah, better go wash your mouth with soap."

She stuck out her tongue at him.

He chuckled. "See you around, Inara."

"Bye, Mal."

Inara left the barn with none of her problems any closer to being solved. Yet somehow she was lighter and warmer, and ever more discomposed, than when she'd come.

* * *

translations:

 _xiǎo_ _bǎo wù -_ little treasured one

 _lǎo wán gù -_ arrogant old man

 _ègùn -_ bully, villain

 _Guān wǒ pì shì -_ "I don't give a sh*t"

 _hùnzhàng -_ f*cker, bastard

 _Wǒ niǎo tā de -_ "Screw him," "F*ck him"

* * *

Aaaand there you have it, folks. The last glimmer of happiness before the _go se_ hits the fan, as they say. I do hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.

I am so _so_ eager to post the next chapter, but before that happens, I'd be thrilled to hear your thoughts on this one! Constructive criticism always welcomed. By the way, Inara's graduate celebration? You can bet that will be important later on. Please feel free to share any predictions/suspicions on that score. ;)

Hope to see you all in not-so-lucky Chapter 13!


	13. Blue Whiskey

Welp. Here I am, day late and a dollar short (okay, more like a _month_ late...) but I am very pleased to present this chapter, at last. I think I'll skip the excuses and simply say thank you to anyone reading this - I really do appreciate your continued support.

To me, this chapter feels more like the show than anything I've posted so far. Why? Well, you'll find out soon enough...

 _Content warning_ : Violence, mild blood, and injury.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BLUE WHISKEY

 _08 - 23 - 2506_

The rougher part of Lu'Weng bristled with broken bottles and bits of metal, crunching under Mal's boots as he pelted down the street. He elbowed through a group of teenagers clumped on a corner, and caught a few razor-edged glares.

That day, the usual crowd of sidewalk gargoyles was sparse. A hush gripped the streets, making any conversation all the more salient, conducted like electricity through the currents of brisk autumn wind. Mal had been en route to his debriefing, in no particular hurry, when he first caught the rumor in passing, like a wisp of smoke.

"So, they finally gave it up."

A pure, ringing pitch had struck Mal's inner ear, blotting out everything else.

Forward momentum was all that kept him upright as he ran. His mind tipped, unsteady, buoyed by one hope: if the Browncoats on any of the Border planets had capitulated to Unification, his contacts would've found a way to tell him.

Unless they were the ones who had given in.

Mal ran faster. Murmurs brushed past his ears, blown like scraps of paper, without catching hold.

"-might has well have lit themselves on fire-"

"…Cowards."

"-those _nǎo cán_ border-planet backbirths…"

A man hunched on the curb, his palms upturned and one phrase repeated as if in prayer, "We have lost our way. We have lost our way."

Mal slowed only when his destination came in sight. The Aerie had no sign, but they'd used it once before, and he recognized the tumor-like outgrowth on the uppermost floor of a cheap construction job, originally residential in purpose, smashed between two warehouses. In defiance of all building codes and the laws of physics, a third of the bar stuck out to hang over the street some 70 feet below.

The flimsy metal stairs screeched under Mal's boots as he pounded upwards, all six flights, and burst into the bar. The air closed in around him, thick with sweetleaf smoke and the buzz of low voices.

He stumbled forward, ignoring the glances thrown his way. A banner of scrolling text, alternating English and Chinese, hung above the shelves of liquor on the back wall. News bulletins, wired from all over the 'Verse.

Mal watched several slip past. He leaned against the bar, breathing hard through a slack mouth.

Then came a headline, first in Chinese, which started with _"Independent Faction."_ Mal's pulse flat-lined as he read. But the characters were not the ones he'd expected. He blinked. The banner repeated the same message in English.

 _"Independent Faction signs Peace Treaty after Parliament compromises on UI"_

Mal's head spun. He gripped the bar, to keep his balance, as the tension bled from his muscles, leaving him limp and wobbly.

"The hell...?" He squinted up at the banner, but it had already scrolled onto other headlines. _Peace_ _treaty_ , _compromise_ , the words rolled in his mind, meaningless. _UI_ , that was the Unification Initiative. _What kind of compromise would Alliance Parliament be willing to make on that?_ Mal wondered.

 _And why should we trust them?_

He grimaced. He'd have to save his questions for Moran and the others. If they even came. The thought sank through him, souring in his gut. _  
_

"Kid. Hey, kid."

Mal snapped his eyes to the bartender. "You alright?" she asked.

"Yeah." He released his grip on the counter, and sat down. "Just shiny."

He ordered a Mello-tone, the deep cobalt liquor that had choked him at his first debriefing. The bartender pushed the glass across the bar, and a pang lodged in Mal's ribcage. If only he knew what was happening back home. Were they celebrating? Throwing down their rifles? He couldn't picture it. All of Birdseye, Mal's friends, Hadley McDannel, _Silas…_ surely they couldn't be toasting this. Mal stared down at his drink.

" _Kěwù_ peace treaty," someone growled in Chinese, with a voice like unfinished concrete. "'S all a trick."

Mal turned, one eyebrow raised, to regard the older man on his right. A grimy maintenance uniform hung off his shoulders. " _Zhǎo sǐ_ Independents just waiting for the right moment to come and slit our throats."

Mal's jaw clenched. He took a large gulp of his drink.

The sentiment echoed down the line of grey-faced workers seated at the bar, drinking away their rest shifts. The more they agreed, the louder they got.

"They'll have us all dead, the bastards."

"And here our Parliament's getting into bed with them…"

Mal tried to rein in his breath. He pressed a hand into the cool chrome surface of the bar, so that it might wick away the heat itching under his skin.

"I'd rather be dead than barely living."

Mal turned to the last who'd spoken. He was young, his voice obviously lubricated by a few drinks, but slight and sweet-faced. He reminded Mal more than a little of Hadley.

"Don' you see? Don' you 'unnerstand what this is?" He leaned over the counter, to address the critics seated on the other side of Mal. His spit nearly landed in Mal's glass. "They're working people, people like us, and they're standing up for their freedom. But all of you can only sit an' drink an' moan, because you don' know what freedom is. You've never known it."

Mal caught the young man's eyes, and gave him the slightest nod.

"Tony," the bartender snapped. _"Bì zuǐ."_

The maintenance worker on Mal's right squared his wiry frame, turning in his stool, glaring past Mal at the kid. "You better watch your tongue."

"Better that I use it, b'fore the Authority cut it out of me." Tony didn't miss a beat. "I can see they already got yours."

Mal couldn't help it. He grinned.

All down the counter, a half-dozen workers in identical uniforms rose from their stools. Mal winced. The floor shook with their weight, stalking over to surround the stool on Mal's left. Tony sat still, and refused to turn around. The biggest of the group, whose neck almost surpassed the width of his head, loomed close enough for Mal to smell his breath.

"I think you're forgetting where you are," he snarled into Tony's ear. "Forgetting your place in the order of things."

Every muscle in Mal's body snapped taut. The words wrapped around his neck with the tightness of his service uniform collar, as good as if he were wearing it.

From somewhere in his head, a quiet voice spoke up. _Get up and walk away from the bar, Mal._ It sounded suspiciously like Inara. _Before you do something foolish._

Tony's breath shunted hard through his nose. He turned around in his stool, and looked up at the hulk, chin set hard. _"Qù xià dì yù,"_ he spat.

The worker's fist arced through the air, landing on the young man's jaw with a crack. Mal watched, open-mouthed, as Tony tried to return the gesture. Two other workers grabbed his arms. They held him back, against the bar.

A second hit landed, straight to the stomach, and the boy swallowed a groan. Mal sprang to his feet. He grabbed the half-empty glass in front of him. The giant was gearing up for another punch, when a wave of whiskey splashed into his eyes.

He clutched his face, with a wail that would have been hilarious, if his friends hadn't then turned on Mal.

One took him by the shoulders, and shoved him up against the counter. The hard edge threatened to rearrange the discs of Mal's spine.

"You wanna free drink, too?" Mal grit his teeth. "Sorry, fresh out."

He smashed the empty whiskey glass into the worker's mouth. It didn't break, but one or two of the man's teeth did, if his garbled scream was any indication. He let go of Mal, and staggered back, only to be replaced by two more.

Mal ducked the first punches and stayed low, jabbing outward to land his fist in the _sake-_ softened belly of the man closest to him. His leaner companion launched a fist toward Mal, but he sidestepped neatly, and grabbed a bar stool to swing out in front of him, toppling both men to the ground in one pass.

"Aw, c'mon now. That's it?" Mal threw out his hands. "That all you g-"

A hard blow landed on his temple. The floor tilted under his feet, and rose up fast to meet him. He kept his grip on the bar stool as he went down, and wound up knocking his chin against one of the legs. He groaned.

He looked up, to find the biggest worker looming over him. He lifted Mal by the collar, until the toes of his boots almost left the ground, and brought their faces inches apart, so close Mal could see only the man's eyes, red and puffy, streaming with whiskey-infused tears.

He threw Mal against the bar. The crack of his skull against the chrome sounded louder than it felt, at least in that moment. Mal's feet slipped out from underneath him, and his arms were caught by two of the uniformed men. They held him upright, braced against the bar.

He looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Tony. There was no sign of him. Mal smiled.

"What're you so happy about, sympathizer?" The thug didn't wait for an answer. He simply aimed for Mal's mouth.

When he pulled back, Mal spat up blood, and kept right on smiling. _Just to screw with 'im_. Pain registered as mere static, a distant, half-remembered thing. This lasted for two, maybe three more punches, before the gunshot.

The workers went still. Mal looked up. Moran stood on top of a table in the middle of the room, his revolver aimed for the ceiling.

"Playtime's over, everybody," drawled a familiar female voice.

Mal knew who it was, but his mind dragged, and the name didn't come. He was distracted by the sight of Latha and Anders stalking over to the bar. Both sported newly-shaved heads and white button-downs. They parted the crowd like a blade through butter. Anders wore a straight face, more serious than Mal had ever seen him. He pushed up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his inner arm: a string of Chinese characters forming a circle around a sword.

"This one's ours, boys," Latha sneered. "Hands off." Mal recalled, through a mind like cold molasses, where he'd seen that tattoo before: on the back of Latha's neck.

The workers stumbled out of the way, clumsy with fear. Mal pitched forward, into Anders' arms.

"Nice tattoo," he slurred. "'M guessin' you didn' get it in Birdseye."

Anders helped Mal upright, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You oughta save your words. You'll need plenty, to explain yourself to Mercey."

Mal lifted his head to see the blurred figure of a woman, narrow and slight in a billowing black duster, coming toward him. Her eyes met his, alight with an unspent threat.

She was the last thing he saw, before he gave into the darkness shimmering around the frame of his vision, and did the only thing left to do.

He passed out cold.

/*/*\\*\

Voices rang in Mal's ears, coming in and out of range like a bad transmission.

"-a bunch of labor syndicate goons. No doubt he said something stupid, riled them up."

Mal swallowed past what felt like a throat-ful of rocks. Pain covered him in layers, thickening with every pulse of blood in his temples.

"Stupid will get him killed." Jo Mercey's voice sliced through Mal's brainstem. "He shoulda learned that already, after what he pulled on Shadow. Guess the lesson didn't sink in."

 _Lord help me._ Mal groaned aloud.

"Rise 'n shine, Sleepin' Beauty." Anders thumped him on the collarbone. "Don't wanna end up with brain damage."

Mal pulled his eyes open. An off-white autumn sky flooded his vision with light so profound his ears started ringing. He shut his eyes again. _Still daytime. That's good._ The ground was smooth and yielded slightly under Mal's weight. Wind brushed over his face, cold pricking his ears.

"Brain damage?" he croaked. "How long was I-"

He cut short with a gasp. A pair of hands grabbed hold of Mal's collar, dragging him half-upright. He looked up to see Moran, face set hard as stone. Mal struggled in the man's grip, as he was pulled along, until the ground came to an abrupt end underneath them. Mal's back met the lip of some kind of barrier.

Realization dawned. The smooth, yielding ground wasn't really ground at all. It was solar sheeting.

They were on the roof of the Aerie.

Moran held Mal's upper half over the edge. His nostrils flared, a volatile strength coiled in the muscles of his arms. Mal panted, too stunned to speak, still blinking tiny stars from his vision.

"You were unconscious ten minutes. You're probably concussed." Moran spoke with deadly calm. "But let me assure you, that is the _least_ of your problems."

"Are you- are you crazy?" Mal grit his teeth, snarling, "Dammit, leggo 'a me!"

"Let you go? I could do that. Since you've apparently decided to take us public, it might save a lot of trouble if I just…" he jerked his arms out further, bringing his face close to Mal's, "…let go."

Mal grabbed Moran's forearms, and held on for dear life. "Oh God Almighty, please don't," he gasped. "I'm sorry, okay? I screwed up. Just please, please…"

"Enough already, for chrissakes." Mal was surprised to hear Anders' voice, pinched in worry, even as he added, "Ain't worth the mess he'll make on the sidewalk."

It was Jo that pulled him back. "That'll do, Moran."

He released Mal's collar with a sneer. Mal collapsed against the edge of the roof, scrabbling to catch the concrete barrier with his hands. He slid all the way down. The adrenaline faded, and pain rushed to take its place, slamming into him sideways. He braced his head between his knees.

Black knee-high boots strode up, landing in front of him.

"Malcolm." Jo lowered into a crouch. She took hold of Mal's chin, and lifted his face to hers. "I came quite a ways to see how things were comin' along here."

Mal's breath fell heavy from his mouth. He froze under her eyes, a harsh, bright grey, like the kind of overcast sky that hurts to look at.

"So." Jo tilted her head. "Tell me exactly how you came to be on the wrong side of an Alliance-loyal labor syndicate gang."

Mal licked his split lip, and winced. He didn't remember getting punched on the mouth. "It's all… kinda fuzzy."

"I'll bet." Latha smirked at him from a few feet away, arms crossed.

"And it better start clearin' up real fast," said Jo.

"I didn't start nothin'. I swear. This bulletin came up on the news banner-"

"The peace treaty," Jo supplied.

"Is it true?" Mal couldn't help it. "Alliance really gave up on Unification?"

"Don't change the subject," said Moran coolly.

Mal scowled. "Anyway. The news inspired those fine loyal citizens to start in critiquing the Independents. I sat there, peaceable and quiet-like. But this guy next to me, he spoke up on our account." He dropped his eyes. "That's when the trouble started."

"So you stepped in as a matter of moral principle." Moran chiseled his voice hard. "You voluntarily defended a Browncoat sympathizer."

Mal got to his feet. "I was defendin' an outnumbered man. I couldn't just sit there and watch someone get macerated in an unfair fight." He threw out a hand. "It's not like I blew my cover."

"But you did," Moran almost roared. He took a breath, and finished, "Whom we choose to help reveals who we are."

Mal looked down at his hands. Fresh bruises purpled his knuckles. "The kid…" He cleared his throat. "At least he got away."

"Not very far." Anders grimaced. He kicked at the solar sheeting of the roof. "Think we tripped over his corpse on the way in."

Mal's eyes went wide. His stomach plummeted all six stories, to the street.

"What," Latha scoffed, "were you plannin' to team up and fight evil together?"

Mal glared at nothing. Funny how he'd thought, for even a second, that he helped the kid escape. As if he could do something of his own will without it all going to _mǐ tián gong._

Jo shook her head, taking a few steps toward him. "I'm real disappointed, Malcolm. Won't deny it. You done pretty good here, so Moran's been tellin' me." She stopped. "But not good enough."

Mal snapped his head up. Jo's eyes settled in his.

"We're shuttin' down your mission."

Mal's pulse thudded beneath his collar. "What?"

"Word from on high. Command wants us out. A show of faith in this peace treaty they negotiated. Alliance agreed to give our own planetary officials final vote on every infrastructure change that'll come with Unification. It's more than we coulda hoped for."

"What?" Mal said again, panic hollowing out his chest. "But-"

"Don't make any kinda sense," Anders stole the words out of his mouth. He spoke with an edge Mal had never heard in him before. The image of the strange tattoo on Prince's wrist flickered in Mal's mind, made vivid by the terror it had inspired back in the bar.

Mal swallowed, looking to Jo. "You can't pull me out now," he said, with fire. "All these big-shots who've come to Zhi's estate in the past six months? Military Commanders. Top-level Security Commissioners. The aide to the Vice Minister of Parliament. I think he's planning something. Something big."

"' _Think'_ is not enough." Moran's lips pulled tight. "We need to know."

"But he's gotta be... preparin' some kinda legislation." Mal's voice strained. "He'll have the power to do just about anything he wants, if he's elected Chancellor."

Jo sighed. "Look, I ain't disagreeing, but-"

Mal burst, without thinking, "I still got Inara." His gut twisted around her name. His fists tightened at his sides. "His daughter."

A thick silence followed. All stood motionless.

Jo lifted her chin. "That's right." Her lips twitched, thoughtful. "You been workin' her a long while now."

"Near on five months."

"She trust you?"

"Yes." The truth of it lodged in his throat.

Jo took slow strides toward the edge of the roof. "We've put a lot into this mission of yours. Lotta time, lotta resources. A whole lotta trust." She tilted her eyes to his. "If you think you can find us some evidence of what Zhi has planned, I can buy you a little leeway. No more than a month."

"Until the Elections?" Mal tried.

"If you're lucky." Jo gave a keen smile. "My advice? Focus on the girl. Use those pretty eyes of yours, make her spill Daddy's secrets."

Mal nodded. _Like hell I will._ It set firm, all the way to his core.

Whatever he did, he'd make sure Inara stayed well away from him. He was done pulling her into this mess.

Jo made a half-turn to leave, then stopped. She cut a look over her shoulder. "I hope this little episode has made it clear where heroics will get you in this line 'a work. If it hasn't, well, next time we won't bother to rescue you. We'll let them finish."

She stalked away. Moran, Latha and Anders trailed after. The sky had darkened overhead, brushed with an indigo-colored omen of approaching night. They reached the rooftop entrance, and Anders shot Mal a smirk that almost covered the flicker of fear in his eyes.

"Don't screw this up," he tossed out, before the door slammed shut.

* * *

translations:

 _nǎo cán -_ stupid

 _Kěwù -_ damn (lit. detestable, abominable)

 _Zhǎo sǐ_ \- looking to die, asking for trouble

 _Qù xià dì yù_ \- 'Go to hell'

 _mǐ tián gong_ \- sh*t, excrement

* * *

Sorry, Mal. 'Fraid things don't get much better from here on in, either. But hey, it never does go smooth, does it?

Reviews are good for the soul! Yours and mine. Karma and all that, y'know. But in all seriousness, I'm very interested to hear your reactions to this chapter. How was the fight scene? Thoughts on the peace treaty news? Any speculations on Anders' and Latha's mysterious tattoos? I'm all ears.

I promise there won't be as long a wait for the next chapter. Until then, hope you're all staying cool out there! (If it's summer where you are, that is.)


	14. Head Over Heart

I'm sorry this took me so long! I went back to school two weeks ago and I've barely had a moment to breathe since, but I wanted to get this chapter up before any more time went by. To anyone still reading this: I appreciate your patience, and I especially appreciate those who have left reviews! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HEAD OVER HEART

 _08 - 29 - 2506_

Inara laid her hand over his, rubbing a thumb back and forth across his knuckles. The rigid lines of his posture began to soften.

"Sorry." He shook his head. "I'm under a lot of pressure. My boss…"

Inara tilted her head, waiting.

"She thinks her style of leadership is the only one. And I'm just not like that with my team." A flutter of nerves crossed his mouth.

Inara set aside the cushion that lay in between them, and shifted closer. "You feel pressured to be a different person than who you are," she prompted.

"Yes, sometimes." Her 'client,' a male Companion in the role of a young, stressed professional contracting for the first time, let out a shaky breath. "All the time."

"You don't have to be that person here." Inara brought her mouth closer to his. "There's only the two of us, and there are absolutely no requirements for this evening."

His muscles slackened, as if to melt into the chaise longue. Inara smiled. Her fingers traced along the line of his jaw.

"Let go with me," she whispered. "The rest will take care of itself."

He hesitated, in-character, before his mouth fell onto Inara's. He let out a moan of relief. Inara slid her thighs over his lap, lifting herself up to straddle him. She ran her hands over his shoulders, up the back of his neck. His hair was a bit long, on the edge of scruffy, trailing down to fuzz on his nape.

That was all it took.

When she breathed in again, it was different air, in a different place, with a different person underneath her. Inara's pulse spiked. She pressed herself flush against his hips, savoring the softness of his hair, and behind her closed eyes it became a dusty brown, with strands of light like trapped sunbeams. His hands rested loosely on her waist. Inara moaned into his mouth, pleading. _Tighter, Mal…_

The bell trilled, to signal the end of the exam. Inara pulled back, gasping for air. She blinked at the stranger staring up at her. Dark brown eyes. Black hair.

Inara recovered, with as much grace as she could. She adjusted her dress, to hide the tremble in her hands, and stood up. The 'client' followed suit, with a pleasant, business-like smile.

She turned to face her exam proctors, and received their praise and critique without absorbing a single word. She heard nothing but her heartbeat in her ears.

"Inara Serra, prospective Companion of the House Madrassa, your performance in this examination has earned a grade of 'exemplary.'" The voice of Priestess Song broke through. "You have successfully completed all examinations administered by this House."

The Priestess lowered her slate board. "Your final evaluation will take place before the Companion's Guild on the day of your 21st birthday, October 3rd, in approximately one month's time."

Inara released a breath. She bowed, a bit out of rhythm, to her 'client,' to the instructor, and finally to Priestess Song. She left the room, moving as if in a dream. In the corridor outside, Min's voice pinched her neck, bringing her to a halt.

"Inara."

She stopped. A vague guilt curdled in her stomach.

For the past three months Inara had tried, and failed, to forget what her father had said about the Priestess. That she had conspired to keep Solomon from his daughter, to keep Inara 'all to herself.' It didn't make any sense. _A misinterpretation of events,_ Inara had decided, _skewed by dislike._

She took in a breath, and turned around. The Priestess gave her a beatific smile. Inara returned it, though it felt false, stiff around the edges.

"Allow me to offer my congratulations."

" _Xiè xiè nǐ,"_ said Inara, with a small bow.

"We should meet soon, to discuss preparations for your appearance before the Guild."

Inara nodded. "I would appreciate that very much."

"You must stay focused, now more than ever." Min held Inara's eyes, intent. "Your hardest test is yet to come."

/*/*\\*\

The moment Inara opened the door of her room, a pair of hands shot out from within, dragging her inside.

"Congratulations," Riz sang, as she pulled Inara down onto the bed. "You survived the big, scary Seduction eval. I say we celebrate." Her lips pressed into a smirk. "Where's your secret chocolate stash?"

"If I tell you, then it won't be a secret."

"No, then it'll be _our_ secret."

Inara rolled her eyes, and turned to the wall above her bed. She pressed the hidden switch which made a shallow drawer pop out, barely more than a crack in the paisley-patterned wallpaper.

The moment Riz clapped eyes on the bar of chocolate, she dove for it. Inara threw a shoulder out to block her. They jostled on the bed, giggling. Riz managed to stretch her arm around Inara's shoulder, and grabbed the gleam of golden foil with a triumphant "Ha!"

A strand of mahogany beads, wrapped around a small book bound in blue, strayed into Riz's grip. When she flopped back on the bed, prize in hand, the beads and book came with it. They landed in her lap.

Inara snatched up the book, but not before Riz saw the title. She laughed.

"Why do you have a copy of the Covenant in your valuables drawer? And why did you wrap your _mala_ beads around it?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Have you been praying for your father's political success?"

"He doesn't need me to." Inara repositioned the beads and tucked the book away in the back of the drawer, pressing it shut again. "He's doing quite well on his own."

Riz peeled back the foil, and broke off a piece of chocolate to hand to Inara. "So where did it come from?"

"I don't remember." Inara shrugged a shoulder. "My father must have given it to me."

"No, he didn't," said Riz with her mouth full. "He would've bought you a real paper copy. That looks like it came off a sidewalk peddler's cart."

Inara said nothing, chewing her chocolate slowly. It might as well have been wax on her tongue for all she could taste of it.

"Inara." Riz stopped eating, eyes fixed in hers. "Out with it, already. Whatever it is you're not telling me. Is it to do with your father? Or the Priestess?" Riz dipped her chin, to murmur, "Do you have a forbidden _qíngrén?"_

"Don't be ridiculous," Inara huffed. "It's not like that-" she stopped short, too late.

Riz's eyes flew wide. " _Aiya,"_ she breathed."You do."

"No, we are not- _involved_. Romantically or sexually. We're just friends."

Riz dropped the chocolate, and sprang forward, to grab Inara's hands in hers. "Who are they? An outsider? How old? How did you meet?

"Lower your voice," Inara hissed. She breathed in sharp through her nose, and let it go. "He's our age. And about as much of an outsider as he could possibly be." She finished, almost too soft to be heard, "He's my father's stable hand."

Riz clapped her hands over mouth, muffling a shriek. She stared at Inara, unblinking, before she lowered her fingers just enough to murmur, "Sweet Buddha…"

"I know."

"You could be expelled."

Inara shut her eyes. "I know."

"So that's why you come back every Sunday smelling like you've been rolling around in the stables."

"I…" Inara knit her brow. "Now wait a minute, that is not-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I-" Inara tore her gaze aside. "I'm sorry. I wanted to, but..."

Riz caught Inara's hands in her own. "You know I won't tell a soul. I promise."

"I know." Inara managed a smile, squeezing her friend's hands.

"Does he know you're a Companion-in-training?" Riz asked.

Inara shook her head. "I said I attend a 'diplomacy academy.' It was just-" She sighed. "I suppose I wanted one person I could talk to who wouldn't bring up the subject of my exams. But now it's been almost six months-"

"Six _months?"_ Riz shot upright, to her knees. "You've been talking to this boy in secret for _six months?"_

"Riz." Inara grabbed her arms, pulling her back onto the bed. "Keep your voice down. Remember the part about this being punishable by expulsion?"

Riz bit her lip, giving Inara a long, hard look. At last she said, quiet, "I think you should tell him."

Inara frowned. "Weren't you the one who wanted to go 'undercover' around boys?"

"That was just a silly fantasy, Inara." Riz leaned forward. "Look, I know why you haven't told him. You want to keep him separate from our world. The real world."

Inara blinked. _Is it, though?_ She let go of a tight breath, and looked away. "Yes," she whispered.

"I understand. Honest, I do. But imagine if it were the other way around. If he was keeping some big secret about who he really was."

Inara drew her lips into a line. "Yes, but... what if I tell him, and he doesn't forgive me?"

"If he's a good person, he will."

"He is a good person." Inara caught herself, and sanded the edge off her voice. "But he's also a very honest one. Brutally honest, sometimes." She smiled. "And so stubborn, I mean, arguing with him is like trying to convince a rock to change colors. But he's easy to talk to, somehow. He's unaffected, and sweet, when he wants to be-" She cut short, cheeks hot.

Riz nodded at her, grinning . "You're sure you don't have just a little bit of flush for him? Just a tiny, miniscule- hey!" She dodged the pillow in Inara's hands, laughing.

One brief yet intense battle later, they flopped down to form yin and yang together on the bed, pillows scattered around them in all directions.

"What does he feel toward you?" Riz asked, barely above a whisper.

Inara chewed her lower lip.

"Come on." Riz sat up, leaning back on her hands. "Don't pretend you haven't read him. It's impossible not to."

Inara pulled herself upright. "Yes," she released through her teeth. "But he is impossible to read. He shows everything."

Riz's brow crinkled. "Then how could it be hard to-"

"No. I mean, he shows _everything._ Attraction, disgust, warmth, fear, admiration, mischief. And that's just in the span of five minutes." Inara hugged a pillow to her chest. "There's no way of knowing what he really feels."

Riz smirked. "Sounds like the Universe is testing you, _jiě jiě._ "

Inara shook her head, huffing out a breath. "You have no idea."

/*/*\\*\

Heavy air enveloped Inara the instant she stepped inside the stables. Tendrils of cold, harbingers of winter fast approaching, followed her in from outside. Inara shut the door behind her.

Darkness cast a grainy film over the interior of the barn. A row of skylight windows let in the only illumination, a monotone grey glow of cloud cover. The stalls lay silent and empty, the horses no doubt turned out in their paddock for the afternoon.

"Mal?" Inara tugged down the hood of her woolen travel cloak, and took a few steps forward. "Are you in here?"

She almost walked past him, not expecting he would be lying on the bench which stretched along the wall outside the tack room. Knees bent, both feet flat on the ground to either side, one hand flung down, the other curled on his chest. His head half-dangled off the end of the bench, in what seemed a rather uncomfortable position. He'd tented a handkerchief over his face.

"Mal…" Inara smiled. She bent over him, and laid a hand on his chest, to prod him awake.

His breath hitched, muscles tensing. Inara pulled her hand back. He groaned.

"Shouldn't've come…" he muttered. "Why d'you always come?"

"What?" Inara's brow knit. "I can't understand you with that silly thing on your face." She lifted the handkerchief away. "Now, what were you-" The words tumbled back down her throat.

Mottled bruises bloomed along Mal's jaw, splotches of dark violet and green. They bore a yellow tint around the edges, which told Inara they were about a week old, but likely still aching. Her heart seized in her chest.

"Mal," she breathed. "What happened to you?"

He grimaced, blinking, as he struggled to sit up. Propped on one elbow, he squinted at Inara. In the hollow of his left eye pooled a deep, wine-colored bruise.

"Uh… Colossus kicked me." A reddened split had barely healed over in his lower lip. "Several times," he added.

Inara unfastened her cloak, fixing him with a look. "This may come as a surprise, but I've had some self-defense and medical training. Enough to know that black eye is thanks to someone's fist, and not the result of any accident you might think up."

Mal heaved a sigh. He swung his right leg over the bench to join the other, and sat up.

"Fine. I was in a fight. And before you start scoldin' me, I heard it all and more from Davis already. Accordin' to him I brought shame on the Councilor and all his ancestors, so I'm on reduced rations for two weeks." He rested his elbows on his knees, one hand cradling his brow. He lifted a finger. "Also, point of interest, I didn't start it. I was a bystander."

Inara pursed her lips. "You must've been standing pretty close." She laid her cloak across the bench, before sitting down next to him.

"I was tryin' to-" He scoffed, and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I only made things worse."

"I would say violence is generally not the answer."

"'Course you would." He hung his head between his knees.

Inara watched him a moment. "Alright," she said at last, decisive. "First of all, sit up straight." At the look he gave her, she added, "It'll help, trust me. You can lean back against the wall."

He tried, then winced, and lifted up. "Can't. It hurts." He gestured in the air behind his head. "Got hit real bad, back 'a my head. I'm concussed."

"I might've guessed." Inara folded her cloak, and held it against the wall. She pressed her other hand to Mal's shoulder, prompting him to lean back into the improvised pillow. He obeyed, eyeing her. He was fever-warm to the touch, pulse thudding beneath the surface of his skin. Inara took her hand away, a beat too late.

She cleared her throat. "You should keep your head above your heart, as much as possible," she explained. "To prevent blood from pooling in your skull, and swelling your cerebral tissue more than it already has."

"Head over heart. Got it." He closed his eyes.

Inara perked at a thought. "Where's that ointment I gave you?"

He let out a low hum, a sound Inara felt all the way down her spine. "My bunk," he mumbled.

She stood up, and moved toward the small room across the main aisle of the stables.

Mal's eyes snapped open. "Wait, what're you-"

Inara held out her hands, to stay him. "I can get it. This is your bunk, yes?"

The door had been left ajar. Inara caught a slivered view of the room within: humble, but tidier than she'd expected. A notebook lay open on the desk, papers strewn around it. A few well-worn books rested on a shelf above the neatly-made bed.

Before Inara could make out the titles, Mal materialized in front of her, filling the doorway. He braced an elbow against the frame. His breath fell heavy, brushing over Inara's cheeks.

"Not lettin' you just waltz into my bunk."

"I was merely trying to save you the trouble of getting up. It's not as though you have anything to hide from me." She curled her words, half in challenge, half in a question.

"Didn't your fancy school ever teach you about privacy?" Mal laid a finger to his cheek, in mock realization. "Oh, my apologies, I forgot. Privacy don't exist here in the Core. Maybe you'll recognize the Chinese, uh... _yǐn sī_ , right?"

Inara opened her mouth, then clapped it shut. A pesky little voice pointed out that her own room at Madrassa was inspected for contraband or evidence of illicit activity once a week. Even her valuables drawer. But her belongings were respected, always, and the honor of the House was at stake. Surely that was worth more than 'privacy?'

Mal shook his head. "I'll get the stupid ointment, if you're so bent on it. Just- hold on."

He ducked into the room, and spent a moment rummaging, muttering under his breath, before he emerged again, to toss the little clay pot into Inara's hands. She beckoned him back over to the bench, and they resumed their original positions.

Inara opened the lid, and her brow shot up. "It's almost gone." She looked at Mal. "You've been using it."

"Yeah, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Once in a while. Helps me sleep."

"So." Inara dipped her fingers into the pot, with a smirk. "At least Core-produced pharmaceuticals might be worth something."

"Huh." He curled his upper lip, simpering.

Inara paused, fingers lifted halfway to his face. "Do you mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," he murmured.

She dabbed ointment on his bruises, and the cut on his lip. Her fingers moved lightly, mapping the planes of his face. She took this chance to absorb the fine details of him, how his mouth curled up at the very edges, always, even when he wasn't smiling. His eyes rested on her and didn't waver. Inara found herself syncing her own breath with his.

"You know," she started, careful, "I don't think it would hurt you to concede that there are some admirable, even beautiful aspects of the Core."

He grunted, without looking away from her.

"Like… Companions, for example," said Inara lightly. She held her breath.

Mal scoffed. "Thought you were listing admirable qualities."

Inara's heart lurched to one side. She lowered her hand, leaning away from him. "What's wrong with Companions?"

He shrugged. "They act like their slippers don't touch the ground, but they're just trained whores with the seal of Alliance approval. Wrappin' sex in money and fine silk don't make it _shénshèng."_

Inara had to look away. She forced air, in and out, through her nose. She pressed her voice down, to keep from spitting outright.

"I wonder, Wesley," she hissed, "how you can bear to work on Sihnon in spite of your disdain for every aspect of our culture."

His nostrils flared. "It's just a job." He glared at the ground. "I don't hafta like this place."

"Well, maybe if you were less antagonistic, you wouldn't get beaten up." Inara shut the jar of ointment, with a bit more force than necessary, and set it aside. "Just an idea."

"You sayin' I deserved it?" He barked a laugh. "Gee, maybe you're right. After all, this is exactly what you and your kind expect of me. Dirty, violent, stupid Border-planet scum. Showin' my true colors at last."

"You certainly could work a little harder to prove otherwise." Inara's voice boiled over. The words were out before she could stop them.

Mal's face cooled, closing up. He didn't move and yet, somehow, he held himself at a distance.

"I'm sorry," Inara said helplessly. "That's not what I meant." Her throat was tight and aching. "I just want to help you-"

"How many times do I gotta say it?" Mal shot to his feet, whirling toward her. "I don't need any gorram help. 'Specially not from you." His arms dropped, stiff at his sides, as he turned away. "Just go. And don't come back here no more."

Inara stood up. "Mal, please…"

"Miss Serra." He pressed it down, firm and cold. "Ain't gonna ask again."

Inara didn't move. She counted out the beats of silence and tried, with everything she had, to catch his eyes. He wouldn't yield. Finally, with aching slowness, Inara gathered her cloak from the bench and left the barn, without another word.

She walked up the slope toward the house, every step dragging as if through sand, pulling at her ankles. She didn't bother to turn her hood up against the chill. It pressed into her on all sides, making her small and heavy.

Priestess Song had warned her. _"Some lines cannot be crossed."_

Inara looked over her shoulder, to see if Mal had followed her. He hadn't. She took several gulps of raw air, letting the wind cool her cheeks.

Then she turned back around, and kept walking.

* * *

translations:

 _qíngrén -_ lover, sweetheart

 _jiě jiě_ \- big sister

 _shénshèng_ \- holy, divine

* * *

So, I have an announcement to make: I'm not sure I'll be able to finish this story. Heading into my senior year of college, I'm realizing that my free time for writing will grow slimmer and slimmer as the year goes on, and I want to be honest and upfront about my ability to keep posting _._ I absolutely hate to abandon any fanfic, not only out of a sense of duty to any readers but also to the story itself. So this is **not** an abandonment notice! Merely a warning that it _may_ be left unfinished. But I'm not giving up hope yet. (Hey, the first fanfic I wrote was a 110k that took me 4 years to finish, so _Solace_ is already better off, heh.)

Also, I go where my inspiration takes me and, to be honest, I'm not feeling this story as much as I was a couple months ago. Right now I happen to be working on a light and fun Firefly College AU in my spare moments (yep, that's right, a College AU) and enjoying the _heck_ out of it. I don't know if I'll post it here, because I've never really seen modern/college Firefly AUs... which suggests people wouldn't be interested in them. But who knows what the future holds?

As always, reviews are loved and appreciated! Any and all opinions you have to share, on this chapter, on this announcement-of-sorts... it's all fair game. Hope to see you all around!


	15. Starlight

Alright, I know I said I was busy (which is true! I am!) _but_ right after posting that I was struck by a lightning storm of inspiration and I rewrote the whole first half of this chapter. So, here it is. I don't want to inflate your expectations or anything, but this is probably my favorite chapter out of all the ones I've posted so far. You'll see why.

But first, a quick shout-out to a couple folks I couldn't thank by PM: Guest reviewer **Jojo -** thank you for all your lovely reviews! I can't tell you how much I appreciate you, and I do hope you continue to enjoy. And to **reneparanoiaxx -** thank you so much for your support, I'm thrilled to hear you'd be interested in the AU!

And now, without any further ado: let the angst commence.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

STARLIGHT

 _09 - 19 - 2506_

Mal crested the hill just after dusk. Cords of wind lashed the wine-colored sky, whipping strong enough to leave a mark.

The Councilor's mansion looked like one of those holo-screen music boxes that lit up all pretty when you opened it. Mal could see into the parlor and the longer room beside it, where the guests swirled in a kaleidoscope of fanciful fabrics. Even their laughter rang with coin, over the prissy squeak of orchestral music.

According to the service schedule, Zhi was hosting a gala. Which, Mal had learned from Leo the cook, was just a party with enough rich and important people in attendance. This one was to thank all the major contributors to Councilor Zhi's campaign. Leo had on good authority that the guest list included the likes of Blue Sun investors, top military brass, and bio-weaponry engineers.

If Mal was going to find anything on Zhi, tonight looked like his best chance. He scanned the unfamiliar faces inside the ballroom, looking for Inara's. He didn't see her. He lifted a hand to his chest, fingers pressing into the cross emblem under his uniform. He dropped his hand, clenched it into a fist, and kept walking.

He reached the path that looped around the mansion, and followed it to the servant's entrance on the far side. Earlier that afternoon, he had watched streams of people preparing for the gala, lugging crates of food and champagne, stacked linens and enormous bouquets of peonies. Temp workers, enough of them that, with a pinch of luck, Mal bet he wouldn't stick out too sorely.

The cramped space downstairs could barely contain the chaos. Among the blur of uniforms, Mal snuck through. He didn't even try to make sense of the activity consuming the oxygen around him. In a room devoted to pressing napkins, he narrowly avoided a second-degree burn from the steam pouring off the domestic bots. Shaking his hand, he stumbled into the hallway beyond.

He skidded to a stop, as a dozen servers trooped out of a side corridor in single file. They wore crisp, identical black-and-white suits. Mal quirked an eyebrow. He slipped down the corridor, and through the door they'd come out of.

A minute later he emerged, tugging at the stiff white collar around his neck. He made it to the main hallway, before a voice struck his ears.

"Stop right there."

Mal froze. He pivoted on his heels. A stout woman with severe eyebrows, gripping a tablet in her yellow-lacquered nails, stared him down. "What is this."

"I, uh." Mal gulped. "I'm new?"

She aimed a finger at his chest, and spat with the efficiency of machine gun fire, "Your waistcoat. It's crooked. Fix it. Then unhitch the lead from your _pì gǔ_ and get moving." Her finger swung to indicate the correct direction. "The others already took their trays up."

"Yes, ma'am," said Mal. The woman had already swept away, fingernails clacking on her tablet.

Fumbling with the buttons of the odd little vest, Mal hastened to the end of the hall. A breathless young woman handed him a tray of champagne and pointed up a stairway.

"You're behind," she hissed. "Go, go!"

Mal barely kept the two dozen champagne flutes upright as he climbed the stairs, and burst through a doorway, into another dimension.

"Whoa," he breathed.

The ceiling stretched above at least 20 feet high, every inch of the white stone carved in rich detail. From the ceiling downward cream and gold tumbled in a glimmering cascade, minute designs curling along the wallpaper. The room stretched into a vast, cold cavern, decorated along the walls with enormous vases of peonies. The guests looked and moved like statues come to life, artwork dressed in more colors than Mal could name. They wore their smiles like jewelry, something put on just for the way it gleamed.

 _"Ahem."_

Mal looked down to find a man in a red sash wearing a scowl that nearly outgrew his face. Mal flashed him a smile.

"Sorry about that, sir," he chirped, and lowered the tray. The man gave him a strange look, and plucked up a flute of champagne. It was then that Mal remembered the servers he'd seen earlier, and their stoic faces. He dropped the grin. Red Sash turned away, shaking his head.

Mal caught sight of another server, and took note of their posture, imitating it as best as he could. In no time at all, he gained a new and profound respect for indoor staff. He'd hauled a hundred bales of straw in less than an hour once. After five minutes holding a tray of full glasses, his arm felt ready to fall right off.

There was no sign of Councilor Zhi. Mal made his way toward the entry into the next room, but every two seconds he was forced to stop, and offer the tray to another guest, then all their friends in turn. Other servers passed by in his periphery, and he made sure to tilt his face from their view. He kept his ear cocked to the conversation around him, but the words were hard to hold onto, foreign and slippery. More than half the conversations were in Mandarin, in dialects he'd never heard before.

At last, he made it through the doors.

The next room was even bigger than the first. A few guests clumped in conversation along the edges, but dancing took up most of the floor, couples joining and disconnecting hands, weaving in and around each other.

Mal skirted around the walls, and stopped for a woman in ceremonial military uniform. She took the last full flute of champagne without looking at Mal, or pausing her conversation with the official beside her, who wore a gender-neutral flared suit.

"-can't disclose any details, of course. But I can assure you that we are prepared for when this 'treaty' of theirs inevitably falls apart." She took a sip of her champagne, with a small smile. "Councilor Zhi has seen to that."

"Do you truly believe it is inevitable, Commander?" asked the official.

"I'm not a politician, nor am I a priest. I don't deal in 'belief.' All I'm saying is-"

Mal didn't hear the rest.

Somehow he felt Inara, before he saw her. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He only caught a glimpse of her, like a flash of light, before he turned away, blinded. His head filled with static _.  
_

A hand landed on Mal's arm. He jumped, nearly dropping his tray, before turning to find himself face-to-face with Solomon Zhi.

The man was a good half a head shorter than Mal. But something about him, maybe the well-tailored suit, or his symmetrical features, made him appear utterly proportionate and purposeful. As if he'd sculpted himself through sheer strength of will, and anyone who deviated from this ideal form betrayed some character deficit.

Mal remembered to avoid eye contact. He braced himself.

Zhi glanced at the tray Mal was holding, and waved a hand. "Oh, you're out. Go on, then." His voice, smooth and detached, coated Mal in a gritty layer of hate. He felt it between his teeth.

Of course Zhi hadn't recognized him. Mal was one of a hundred or so people in service on the estate. The few times Zhi had gone riding he'd barely acknowledged Mal, much less noticed what he looked like. His eyes brushed over him as if he were a non-entity, a piece of furniture, there to serve a purpose and nothing more.

Mal stood motionless, as Zhi turned away. If he had run, dropped the tray and bolted from the room, maybe it all could've turned out alright. But hypotheticals are meaningless. There's only what happened, when Inara walked up to her father, and her eyes landed on Mal. Her mouth fell open. Zhi looked at her, head tilted. Mal's heart stopped beating.

For a moment, the three of them were caught. One wrong move could trip the wire, and bring the end of the 'Verse, right there in the middle of the ballroom.

Then, just as quickly, the moment was gone, and Inara was smiling pleasantly at her father. She reached out to squeeze his arm.

"Forgive me, _Bàba._ I'll return presently." She turned, and walked right past Mal. She didn't look at him, but her lips mouthed _'follow me,'_ knowing he would see.

Councilor Zhi frowned, before he was called away by a nearby clump of garishly-dressed aristocrats. He moved on.

Mal started to breathe again. But he knew better than to feel relief.

He milled through the crowd for a long and horrible minute, pausing robotically to let guests deposit their empty glasses on his tray. Blood rushed hot in his ears. He went through his options.

He could follow Inara, and tell her the truth. _And have her run crying to her daddy? Not a chance._ He could turn tail and run. _Tempting_. But no. There was only one thing to do.

Follow Inara, and lie.

He escaped the crowd, and left the hall the same way she had gone. As soon as he slipped through the doors, a hand clapped around his wrist, stabbing adrenaline through his heart.

" _T_ _ā mā bāzi_ -" he burst. He barely managed to slide the champagne tray onto a nearby decorative table, before Inara dragged him into a room across the hall.

It was pitch dark, before she smacked a panel on the wall, and a glow appeared along the edges of ceiling, illuminating a small library full of genuine, leather-bound books. Under different circumstances, Mal would've marveled, with some disgust, at this mind-boggling display of wealth. He'd never been inside a room with so much paper and wood in his entire life.

Inara shut the door behind them. She pinned Mal against it with her eyes, dark yet bright, burning him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" He swallowed. His mind was blank. The lie rose up from somewhere else, somewhere in his stomach. "I had to see you."

Inara stared at him. "Are you _crazy?"_

"Maybe." It sure felt like it. Inara glowed in the red silk of her traditional wrap dress. It was the first time Mal had seen her in something other than her plain school uniform. He felt light-headed, almost giddy. He was reminded of when Moran had dangled him off the roof of the Aerie, and every second had tasted like his last.

Inara narrowed her eyes. "You're the one who told _me_ to stay away from _you_. Or don't you remember?"

"Yeah, I did." Mal ran a hand through his hair. "I was angry, and… I was wrong. Wrong about a whole lot. I just couldn't let you go without tellin' you I'm sorry. For everything." The words hollowed out his insides, left him lighter than before.

She looked away, blinking fast. "I can't do this, Mal." She let out a breath, not quite a laugh. "I shouldn't even be talking to you."

He nodded. His throat had turned to rock. "Yeah. I get it."

"No, you don't." Her eyes shot to his. "I'm sorry." Her voice was brittle, weak. She dropped her eyes. "You should go."

Mal nodded again. A hot fog settled onto his shoulders, making the air so thick he could barely breathe. He turned away, without a backward glance, and slipped through the library doors.

Further down the hall, Councilor Zhi was emerging from another, similar set of doors. Mal ducked into the shadows. He held his breath and watched, as Zhi pressed his thumb to the center of the door handle. It let out a faint electronic chime. Satisfied, Zhi swept across the hall, and reentered the ballroom.

Mal hesitated a moment. He grimaced. There were secrets in that room, he had no doubt. But there was no way he was getting inside right then. The fog was too dense, frustration hot and tight around his neck, as he left the way he'd come. He passed unnoticed, invisible, through the party, the service basement, and into the deepening night.

/*/*\\*\

By the time midnight closed in, Mal decided he hated galas. He put them right near the top of his list of the worst things about the Core.

He sat on the barn roof, boots braced against the gutter, on the side facing away from the mansion. Tendrils of light reached out from behind him, across the fields, almost reaching the trees clumped on the edge of the estate.

From the sound of it, the revelry wouldn't be dying down anytime soon. Mal wondered how Inara was doing.

He lifted the bottle at his side, and took another swallow. It punished him, burning all the way down. He let out his breath in a hiss.

In a show of uncanny foresight, or more likely by mistake, the previous stable hand had left behind an unopened bottle of _baijiu_ in a compartment under the bed. White liquor: the drink of choice for those who wanted to get as drunk as possible, as quick as possible. Mal had been tempted to open it after the dust-up at the Aerie, but decided in the end to save it for a worthier occasion.

He sighed, and squinted at the bottle. A third of the way gone already, and he'd been at it less than an hour. The 'drinking game' he'd come up with was maybe a tad too effective.

He threw himself back against the roof, and stared upward. A few sparse stars pinpricked the black bowl of the sky. Nothing like the ribbons of constellations one could see back on Shadow. Sihnon's two moons hung side by side, full and bright, the smaller one cradled below and to the right of its big sister.

At that moment, Mal should have been working on how to sneak back into the party, and get past Zhi's bio-tech lock on that door. He had only ten days left before Mercey's deadline. Yet there he sat, on the barn roof.

He knew, no matter what he did, she would appear before him, and everything would fall apart.

He clenched his jaw. "Dammit." He tipped back another mouthful of liquor, and swallowed it down.

"Mal?"

He froze. Maybe the alcohol was strong enough to cause auditory hallucinations.

"Mal, I know I heard you." Her voice got clearer, closer. The rear sliding doors of the stables squealed open, and Inara stepped through them. She wore her winter cloak, arms crossed tight over her chest. "Where are you hiding?"

Mal held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut. _Go away, go away, go away,_ he thought as loud as he could. He cracked his eyes open. Inara hadn't moved.

She huffed out a white cloud of breath. "You can be so childish." She cast her eyes around. "I know you're out here, somewhere, because you would never leave this door unlocked. You might be crazy, and childish, and an idiot about so many things, but you're never irresponsible."

Mal couldn't help himself. "Gee, that almost sounded like a compliment."

Inara jumped, whirling around. She looked up at the roof. Her eyes widened. "What are you doing up there?"

"Wanna come up an' find out?"

She let out a breath of a laugh. "You are incorrigible."

"Thanks." Mal grinned.

Inara tugged her gloves off, and tucked them into an inner pocket of her cloak. She disappeared from Mal's line of vision. There was a telling creak of wood, from the bench that stuck out along the back wall. Then a thud, as her foot found the doorframe.

"Whoa, hey." Mal scrambled to a crouch, trying to peer over the edge without falling off. "I was kidding, don't-"

A pair of hands clapped onto the gutter. Inara swung herself up with ease, one silk slipper after the other. She pulled the ample fabric of her dress and woolen cloak along with her.

She landed with hands flat on the roof, and turned to give Mal the most adorable grin of astonishment. "I did it," she breathed.

He blinked. "Uh, yeah. So you did."

"I'm on a _roof,"_ she said, louder. Her eyes shone, cheeks flushed.

Mal smirked. "This your first time, huh?"

"Shockingly, I don't get a lot of chances at my school. I missed registration for the course on illegal climbing." She flipped herself around, so she could sit next to Mal, and arranged her dress over her knees.

He frowned. "I ain't breakin' no laws."

Inara's eyes lit on the bottle of _baijiu,_ lying between them _._ Mal grabbed for it, but she was faster. She read the label, and cocked an eyebrow at him. "So, you weren't drinking this, then. Just holding it for a friend?"

"Hey, I'm legal." Mal tried to grab it back, but Inara held it out of his reach. "On Shadow, anyway," he added, giving up. He wasn't going to wrestle her for it.

He hastily wiped _that_ image from his mind.

"Right." Inara tilted her head. "What's the drinking age there?"

"Fifteen."

"Mm. Here it's 21."

Mal huffed. "You Core-worlders and your long lifespans. Got a skewed sense of age." A light switched on in his mind. He sat up straight. "What day is it?"

Inara consulted a tiny screen sewn into the sleeve of her cloak. "As of twelve minutes ago, it is the 20th of September."

Mal chuckled, though it felt heavy in his chest.

"What?"

"Nothin', just-" He turned to her, with half a smile. "It's my birthday."

"Oh, let me guess. You just turned 21?" she asked, on the edge of a laugh.

Mal shook his head. "Almost. I'm 20."

"You're serious?" She pushed his shoulder, smiling wide. "Happy birthday, Wesley Malachi Gale."

He managed to hold his smile, at the sound of the name that wasn't his. "Thank you." He shook his head. "Honestly, never thought I'd make it this far."

Inara laughed. Mal joined her, though he hadn't meant it as a joke.

"Well, as I'm only two weeks from turning 21 myself, I'll toast your 20 years of life with you." Her smile, delicate yet devious, flipped Mal's insides. She poured a thimbleful of _baijiu_ into the cap of the bottle, and drank it down.

"Hm." She winced. "It's… definitely not rice wine."

Mal chuckled, and took the bottle from her. "Yeah." He tossed back another swallow. "43 percent alcohol."

"Where did you get it?"

"Found it under the bed. The last stable hand musta forgot it when he left."

Inara gave him an odd look. "You mean, when he died."

"What?" Mal's grin evaporated.

"Sorry, I thought you knew. Don't worry, it wasn't here," she added, soothing. "He took leave to go home, for a family emergency, and had some sort of accident."

Mal turned away. A slow, sick realization spread through him.

"It happened shortly after Davis arrived," Inara went on, oblivious. "Quite an unpleasant start for him here, I imagine."

Mal barely heard her over the thud of his pulse. It had to have been someone in the Intelligence Corps. Or someone they'd hired. They'd murdered a man whose only crime had been to work in a position they wanted open, so Mal could step in.

His gut twisted. "Yeah. Real unpleasant," he muttered.

He looked over at Inara. She had tilted her gaze up to the sky. Light spilled over her face in profile, catching in her eyelashes. It glinted off the small golden disc on her left ear, branded with the Alliance symbol.

A profound ache bore into Mal's chest, heavy and certain as iron in his blood.

He couldn't follow through with the mission. Damn Zhi, and Mercey, and all the rest.

 _But if you give up, it means giving her up, too._

"The stars are out." Her voice, soft and sweet, pulled him out of his head. "Though not as many as there must be on Shadow. The light pollution here is intense."

"Sure is." Mal let out a breath. "But the view's not so bad."

He'd said it without looking away from her. He bit his cheek, swallowing a curse. Inara's lips twitched against a smile.

"You must be freezing." She knit her brow. "You're not even wearing a jacket."

"I'm hot-blooded," he joked. An inadvertent chatter of his teeth betrayed him.

Inara rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous." She undid the clasp of her cloak, and slid over, before Mal could utter a word of protest. He froze, every muscle tensed. Inara pressed herself flush against his side. She draped the cloak sideways over their shoulders, like a blanket.

"Better?" she murmured in his ear.

Mal didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded. He sure felt warmer. In fact, he felt like he'd been plunged into a blazing iron forge. He swallowed hard.

"Aren't they missin' you, at the party?" he asked, to distract himself from the wholeness of her: hip pressed into his, legs crossed prettily at the ankles.

"I made my excuses."

She twined her arm around his. He risked a glance over at her. She had turned her gaze out to the fields, chewing her lower lip.

"Inara."

She looked over at him. They were so close, he felt her breath on his cheeks. "Why'd you come here, really?" he asked.

"Same reason you came to the house. I had to see you."

"Why?"

Inara glanced down, to find Mal's hand. She wove her fingers with his. "A few weeks ago, when you said all those things about the Core, I got the feeling… you were doing it on purpose. You wanted to push me away, for some reason." She lifted her head, to catch his eyes.

Mal pulled his mouth into a hard line. He looked down at their hands, half-transfixed by the wonder of it. Inara's palm, soft and slightly cool, kissing his.

"Never mind." She shook her head.

"No, it's- you're not wrong. Truth is, I…" _Zāogāo._ He could barely speak with her staring up at him, eyes all big. "I'm sick of pretendin'. That's all." He sighed. "We both pretend like we can be friends, when we can't."

"Oh." Her breath stuttered. "What can we be, then?"

Against his will, Mal's eyes landed on Inara's lips. Blood coursed close to the surface of his skin, electric-charged with _baijiu_ and the vague scent of caramel and the curve of her cheek.

He grimaced. "We can't be nothin', Inara." He turned away, jaw clenched hard. He pulled his hand out of hers. He didn't want to know what was on her face just then. But he broke, _weak, as always,_ and turned back.

He hadn't expected no reaction at all. Her hands folded neat on her knees, all of her composed, compressed. Only her eyes showed something else.

"I wish you would tell me what's wrong," she said, quiet.

 _What isn't?_ Mal scowled. "Whadd'you care? In a month's time you'll be in some plush office on Londinium, busy servin' the Great Alliance. You'll forget I even exist."

"Don't pretend to know my life." Her mouth pressed tight, eyes flashing. "And if you believe I could ever forget you, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought."

She gathered her cloak, arranging it over her shoulders again, before she slid over to the gutter. Mal sat still, stunned. He watched her drop down lightly over the edge. Her slippers padded over cement, ringing from within the stables.

He broke out of his trance, and scrambled upright, then tumbled off the roof. Ankles stinging, he lurched through the rear doors.

"Wait." It jerked out of him, scattering the silence. A few of the horses stirred.

Inara stopped, and turned around.

Mal kept his eyes in hers. He walked like he was falling, like he couldn't stop until they collided. He reached out, and touched her. Only because she had touched him first. Because she had asked _'What can we be, then?_ ' with her eyes on his mouth.

He took her shoulders in his hands. She drew close to him in answer. And just like that she was in his arms, and Mal couldn't quite make sense of it. She was soft and whole and staring up at him, breathing through an open mouth. Mal bent down toward her.

"Miss Serra?"

Mal and Inara jolted apart, stumbling away from each other. They turned. A large, lopsided silhouette filled the front doorway.

" _Wán le, shā le wǒ ba,"_ said Mal, under his breath.

Talmai Davis listed into the barn, feet dragging, unhurried. He held a lantern in one hand. Its harsh light streaked shadows up his long, narrow face.

"Mr. Davis, please, I can explain." Inara lifted her palms. "This was all my doing. I'm the one who came down here, please don't-"

She stopped. Davis wouldn't even look at her. His eyes didn't waver from Mal's. "Let me walk you back up to the house, miss," he said evenly. "It's late."

Inara's eyes flashed to Mal, bright with pity, and regret. In that moment, he almost hated her. Almost _._ She looked back to Davis, and ducked her head. "Yes," she whispered. "Alright."

Inara crossed the barn to stand at the groundskeeper's side. Mal found his voice. "Sir, nothing's happened, I swear. We were only-"

Davis lifted a hand. "You ought to remember your place here, Wesley." His voice scraped like sand, dry and toneless, in Mal's ears. "In this world, those who forget don't last very long."

He turned away, and loped out of the stables, his lantern splashing light like flames up the walls. Inara cast her eyes to Mal, one last time. She followed Davis out, and the door slid shut behind them.

* * *

translations:

 _Tā mā bāzi -_ Sh*t, Holy sh*t

 _Wán le -_ That's it, I'm done for

 _shā le wǒ ba -_ Kill me now

* * *

Okay, okay, you have every right to be mad at me for that, but come on - it's not a slow burn without at least one excruciating near-kiss. ;)

If you'd like to share a couple words of response to this chapter, please go ahead! It honestly lights up my whole day to hear from you, even if it's just a brief sentence to let me know you're enjoying the story. Or if you just want to yell at me for the groundskeeper's untimely entrance, that is also welcome.

I hope I'm able to post the next chapter sooner rather than later. Until then, stay shiny!


	16. Unveiled

Hello, hello! Long time no update! I had a burst of writing energy this weekend and I felt inspired to get this chapter up. It sets up some crucial stuff for what lies ahead, but I hope it does so in an entertaining fashion. Also, there's a brief surprise appearance from another character on the show (whom I love and think deserved better than she got.)

Enjoy!

Soundtrack \- **Gilded Cage:** "Something Is Wrong" by Bruno Coulais & Kila, from _Song of the Sea: Original Soundtrack (2014)_

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

UNVEILED

 _09 - 30 -2506_

Inara's cheeks ached. She'd held a smile all night, every night, for the past week.

She carried it in the hold of the jeweled choker around her neck, which trailed strands of diamonds down the open back of her gown. They matched the constellation of gem-studded pins in her hair, trussing her curls into an intricate woven pattern. Inara balanced the weight with every tilt of her head, every bow. She traced countless circles between the ballroom, parlor, and dining room, every two steps pulled into another conversation, another dance, another introduction.

All the while, waiting for disaster to strike.

Over a week had passed since the night she visited Mal, for the last time. A week of remembering the burn of _baiju_ in her throat, and Mal's hands on her shoulders, brief and warm, before Talmai Davis had walked in.

She had no idea how she'd made it this long. It was the second-to-last night of her graduate celebration, and her father hadn't come to her in a rage, nor Min Song in quiet disappointment. This could only mean Davis hadn't told her father. Which meant Mal still had his job, and all of his limbs. She hoped.

Inara tried to appear engaged in the spiel of the aging, portly Lord in front of her. She kept her peripheral vision keen, watching for her father. At last she saw him, his moving form blurred in the gilt-edged mirror on the wall behind Lord Vobult.

The man tracked her wandering eyes, and frowned. Inara shook herself.

" _Qǐng liàngjiě_ , my Lord. I lament my disrespect, but I have just seen my father. There is a matter I must discuss with him."

The man's mustache twitched into a frown. "Ah. We shall have to continue our conversation some other time, then."

"At the soonest opportunity. It was a sincere pleasure, Lord Vobult." Inara let the man bow to her first, out of respect to her debut, before she returned the gesture, and added, " _Dàimàn zhī chù, qǐng duō bāohan."_

She wove through the swirling crowds of people in the ballroom. Curious glances sliced the back of her neck. She forced herself to slow down, measuring her steps as her training demanded.

"Councilor," she called.

He turned around. It was the first time they'd seen each other that night, Inara realized. He'd been in meetings all afternoon while she had prepared, then they'd been tugged into different social orbits, parallel but never intersecting.

"My dear." He beamed, spreading his arms wide. " _Tài piàoliang le."_

Inara managed a smile at the compliment. She drew closer, and lowered her voice. "Have you spoken to Davis recently?"

"Who?" Her father's brow crinkled. "You mean, the groundskeeper?"

Inara nodded. Air clogged in her lungs, burning there.

"No, I can't say I have." Solomon smiled, bemused. "Is something the matter?"

Inara released her breath. She shook her head. "No. Everything's fine. I wanted to make sure he's prepared to clear the driveway before our guests depart. It's supposed to start snowing any moment."

"Ah. Very considerate of you, darling. But no doubt Davis is already aware. He's an odd one, but he doesn't make mistakes."

Inara swallowed the rest of her champagne, and set her glass on a passing tray.

"Just to be safe," her father added, "you could ask Lampson to pass along the message."

"I will," she lied. She had no intention of troubling the butler.

Solomon's eyes drifted past Inara's shoulder. A shadow skimmed his brow.

Inara turned, to see Priestess Song coming toward them. Her gown graced her long, lithe form, a gossamer sheen of rose-colored satin that drew out the bronze tint of her skin. Draped over her shoulders was a shimmering gold wrap, patterned to resemble wings.

"Inara. Councilor. May I offer my congratulations. It seems the celebration has been a great success."

"Thank you, Priestess." Solomon's smile was a bit too warm. "I owe much to its star." He laid a hand on Inara's back. "She has proven herself quite adept in the social arts, making connections that will advance her career as a Companion."

Min's eyes sparked. "I can imagine. The guest list is indeed extensive. It seems half of Parliament is here on this night alone. No doubt it's proved quite timely for you, Councilor. Election Day is tomorrow, isn't it?"

The sinews of Solomon's neck twitched. Inara opened her mouth, to deescalate, but before she could the Priestess spoke again.

"You must excuse us, Councilor. A guest has arrived whom I expect Inara will want to see right away."

Inara's father waved a hand. "Of course." His smile went stiff at the edges. "Always an honor, Priestess. I'm sure we shall see each other again before the night is through."

The Priestess arched her brow. "I expect so."

She linked her arm with Inara's, and pulled her away, through the ballroom, into the passageway that led to the parlor. Inara could feel her pulse under her chin.

"Is there really a guest, or did you want to speak with me for some other reason?"

Min cast her a sidelong glance. "Of course there's a guest."

"Then who-"

She cut short when she saw a familiar auburn head, adorned in braids woven with violet ribbons, to match the color of the young woman's dress.

"Nandi," Inara burst. Nandi turned, and Inara rushed into her arms.

"Inara. Are you a sight for sore eyes." Nandi pulled back, holding onto Inara's shoulders, to look her up and down. "For any eyes." She lifted her brow. "You look… _xiàng_ _nǚshén_ _yīyàng_."

"So do you. You look so well." Inara couldn't help but notice the taut line of Nandi's mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. She went on, breathless, "I thought you weren't coming, you didn't respond to the invitation-"

"I know." Nandi's brow cinched. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for." Inara tried not to think about the countless unanswered waves she'd sent, months before. She put on a smile. "You've been very busy."

"Inara, I-" Nandi pressed her lips together. She lowered her voice. "Is there somewhere we could speak in private?"

"Well, yes, but I shouldn't be gone too long…"

Nandi took her hand, and squeezed it. "It's important. It might be the last chance we have."

Dread fell like a weight through Inara's stomach. She nodded.

Too quick for anyone to notice, she pulled Nandi out of the parlor, and through the foyer. She led them up the stairs to the second level, into the first guest room. Once the door was shut behind them, she gestured to the bed. "Please, sit."

Nandi shook her head. Away from the parlor and the people, she had shed her composure. She paced back and forth across the busy patterned carpet, rubbing her fingers together. Inara stepped in front of her, and caught her hands.

"You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

Nandi lifted her eyes. At last she let it out, quiet. "I'm leaving."

Inara blinked at her. "You mean, you're going to leave Luguan? To work in another establishment?"

"No. I'm _leaving_. I'm quitting the Guild." She tacked on, in a rush, "They're going to expel me, anyway. It's the same result."

Inara couldn't say anything, at first. She held onto Nandi's hands. "The Guild can't expel you." She shook her head. "It would ruin your life. No- they don't just _expel_ Companions."

Nandi dropped her eyes. "They do now."

"What happened? What have you done?"

"The problem is what I've refused to do." Nandi tugged her hands away. "Maybe we'd better sit down, after all."

They perched on the edge of the bed. Inara turned to Nandi, who faced outward, hands making a tight knot in her lap. She stared into nothing.

When she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically faint. "Our life is supposed to be perfect. In Luguan, I mean." She tilted her eyes upward. "It _is_ , on the surface. But there's… all sorts of ugly, underneath."

Inara took Nandi's hand, and rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. She let silence draw out the rest.

"They say the rules are for our own protection. Because of the so-called rebel infiltration across all levels of society. That's the reason we 'choose' our clients from a pre-selected pool. And the same reason interplanetary travel is too dangerous, so we can't leave Sihnon. Transportation of any kind is a risk. It all has to be approved by the board of directors of the establishment."

Inara bit her lip. "At least they let you come here."

"They didn't. I've been under house arrest, for disregarding orders."

"Orders?" Inara had to scoff. "They've no right to order you to do anything."

Nandi turned damp eyes to hers. "Yes, they do. I'm under a contract. If I don't fulfill my obligations, they'll dismiss me. And the Guild will expel me, for good measure."

"But... what 'obligations'?"

"A few months ago, the establishment let an official from Alliance Central Intelligence into my quarters. Apparently, there was reason to believe that some of my clients were moles. Working undercover for the Independent Faction."

Inara lifted a hand to her mouth. _"Aiya."_

"I was given a list of topics to bring up during my sessions, to read each client's response. If they were nervous, showing signs of sustained deception, et cetera. I was to make a report after every session." Nandi's jaw clenched. "I'm sure the ACI also stuck bugs all over my quarters."

"Oh, Nandi." Inara's stomach churned. Her dress felt horribly tight. "What did you do?"

"What choice did I have? I did what they wanted. The questions, the reports. But one day, I just-" Her voice faltered. "I couldn't stand it anymore. You know me." She quirked a corner of her mouth. "I don't much care for being told what to do. And to betray my clients' trust, over and over…"

Inara rested a hand on her shoulder. "You did the right thing."

"I know. But I'll never be able to work in the Core again, after the Guild expels me. My only hope is to find somewhere calm and clean enough, out on the Border."

"You're going to keep working… in the trade?"

"Sex was the one thing I enjoyed about being a Companion." Nandi managed a wry smile. "And I'm not going to get by playing the dulcimer, that's for sure."

Inara let out a laugh, but it crumpled, into something closer to a sob. She wrapped her arms around Nandi. They held onto each other tightly, pressed cheek to cheek.

"I'll be fine," Nandi said softly. "I'm not about to let some _hùnzhàng_ in a suit decide the rest of my life is forfeit, just because I won't be his pet informant."

"No," Inara choked out. "Of course not."

Nandi drew back. "I'm so sorry, _mèi mèi._ I wish I could welcome you into your future with nothing but open arms and happy tidings. But I had to tell you the truth."

Inara ducked her head. She swallowed hard, and looked back up. "Thank you," she whispered.

Nandi stood, and moved to the door. Inara followed.

"I have to go. The fewer people know I was here, the better." She stopped, turning to capture Inara's eyes in hers, taking her hand. "Listen to me. I know everyone's always told you that your life is made. That your talent has paved your future in gold, and all that. But you have hard decisions ahead of you." Her words crackled around the edges. "Your life won't be easy. No life worth living ever should be."

Inara nodded. Her last moment with Mal in the barn bore down heavy inside her. Had there been time, she would have told Nandi everything about those past six months. About him. A thought struck in passing, like a spark between stones: Nandi's spirit was so like Mal's. They would have liked each other, had things been different.

"Nandi." Inara's throat closed up, too tight to speak.

"This isn't goodbye," Nandi said, as if reading Inara's mind. She pressed a kiss to her cheek. "We'll see each other again. I know it."

They left the guest room. Inara led the way down the stairs, seeing Nandi to the front door. She reassembled her composure, but only on the surface. Underneath, something sharp and unwieldy threatened to break through.

Their eyes met, for the last time, as Nandi stood on the front stoop. The first flakes of a snowfall dusted her hair.

"Safe journey," said Inara.

Nandi smiled, warm and sure. _"Mangalam,_ my dear."

 _"Mangalam_."

Inara watched until the taxi cruiser disappeared down the front drive, into the black totality that was night in the countryside. Even then, she didn't move from the doorway. The snow picked up pace, flakes swirling in the pool of light cast by the house.

"Miss Serra, is everything alright?"

She started, and turned to find Lampson still holding the door, waiting for her.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Lampson." She gave him a smile, and turned around. The foyer wrapped her in the heady scent of cologne, the humidity of voices loosened by champagne, laughter ringing over marble. Inara stopped still.

She had to talk to her father. She had to make him understand that a life in an 'Alliance-protected' establishment would be no life for her, for _anyone_. A thought chased in that one's wake; becoming House Priestess of Madrassa would only remove her by one degree. She would send her trainees into the same situation, to have their wings clipped and their lives dictated by the Alliance.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The buzz of the party spilled out of the parlor, to her right. On her left lay her father's study. A rumble of voices seeped from the edges of the door.

"-can only speak for myself, but I'm certain you'll not have the Prime Minister's support in this."

Inara drew closer, head cocked, and managed to put a name to the voice: Thaddeus Delport, Vice Minister and one of the most powerful people in Parliament, second only to the Prime Minister herself.

"I'm not seeking support, but rather understanding," came her father's reply, measured and firm. "A mutual agreement, that we must take whatever steps are necessary. The Independents must not be allowed to make the first move."

"But this… this will start a war."

The air turned to cotton in Inara's lungs. She pressed her ear to the door.

"Only if it fails, Vice Minister." Her father chiseled his words out of stone. "And if war does come, what's important is that we start with the upper hand, and maintain it until the Independents are finished."

"What's important is that we maintain our integrity as defenders of civilization. Your plan necessitates a level of collateral damage and civilian casualties that our public is unlikely to accept."

The words crawled up Inara's neck. Her mouth hung open.

"My dear man, the public will accept whatever they are told," her father said evenly. "All we're doing is providing fuel for the fire. The Independents will be the ones to set it alight. Everyone knows they're self-destructive _wēnshén._ The public will easily accept that they are the authors of their own downfall, and the Alliance is right in taking military action, to save them from themselves."

"You're walking a dangerous line, Councilor. Between containing the chaos, and using it to your own benefit." Delport's voice grew louder, closer. "I'll see to it that an investigation be opened into your activities over these past six months."

The door handle turned. Inara gasped, and stumbled backward, flattening herself against the wall. Delport burst into the foyer, her father close behind. The door swung wide. Inara squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact. It didn't come. She opened her eyes. The door had stopped an inch from the end of her nose.

"Investigate me all you like, Vice Minister." Solomon's voice billowed, to fill the foyer. "But I remind you that once I'm elected Chancellor, I'll have the power to set my plan in motion anytime I choose. With or without the blessing of the High Council."

Their footsteps paused. _"If_ you're elected. No one knows what tomorrow will bring." The clack of shoes began again, fading into the parlor.

Inara's father followed, as he said, "Truer words could not be spoken." A smile crisped the edges of his voice, carried across the hard and hollow space.

Inara didn't move. She waited for her father to return and close the door, and discover her.

He didn't. After a long minute, she slid out into the open. Her father stood some twenty feet away, with his back turned, caught in a conversation in the entry of the parlor.

Inara watched from outside herself, as she slipped into her father's study. Her hand was not her own, reaching out to pull the door shut behind her.

A moment later her father's footsteps rang out again, walking back across the foyer. Inara stood motionless. Her breath stuck in her throat.

Solomon paused on the other side of the door. A soft electronic trill rang through the handle: the sound of the fingerprint recognition lock. The door wouldn't open again, from either side, for anyone but him.

He walked away. Inara's heartbeat crashed over her ears, along with the echo of words like distant thunder.

 _"This will start a war."_

She turned, and drew toward the desk. Her father's personal tablet lay on the surface. She picked it up, and activated the screen.

The text of the open document was dense, knotted with tables and graphs. Inara squinted at a phrase in bold. She had to reread several times before it sunk in. _'_ _Expected mortality rate: 80-90% within a mile of blast radius.'_ She skipped to the next page, titled _'T_ _arget points,'_ and below it a name that pierced Inara's lungs.

 _'Shadow.'_

The list stretched page after page, names of cities and provinces Inara had never even heard of. Hundreds, at least. Then began the list for Hera, and it kept on going, climbing into the thousands. The text blurred, as tears filled Inara's eyes. Frantic, she skipped ahead through the document.

Several pages detailed the structure of some kind of device. Inara assumed it must be a weapon. But the more she stared, the less she understood, as the images melted, and lost all meaning.

She let go of the tablet. It fell to the desk with a thud. She pressed shaking fingers to her mouth. The air pressed in around her, thick, smothering. _  
_

The windows on the far wall looked out into the night. Inara perked up as she remembered: the border security of the house had been temporarily switched off, for all the comings and goings of the party.

She pushed the window open. The plane of glass tilted horizontally, letting raw air pour in. Inara gathered the trail of her gown in one hand, and slipped through. She landed in the frozen flowerbed below.

Once she had pulled the window shut, Inara turned to face the night. She balled the hem of her gown in one fist, and stepped forward. The wind swallowed her whole.

She ran the route she knew by heart, through the darkness, plush and silent with thickly falling snow.

* * *

translations:

 _Qǐng liàngjiě_ \- Please forgive me

 _Dàimàn zhī chù, qǐng duō bāohan_ \- I'm sorry to neglect you, thank you for understanding

 _Tài piàoliang le -_ So beautiful

 _xiàng_ _nǚshén_ _yīyàng -_ like a goddess

 _Mangalam -_ [Sanskrit, not Mandarin] a traditional Buddhist farewell, to wish someone luck

 _wēnshén -_ troublemakers (lit. 'plague gods')

* * *

Well, I'll give you one guess as to where Inara's going... ;)

Aahhh! I'm so excited to post the next chapter you have _no_ idea. I apologize for the lack of Manara in this one, but I can promise the next two will endeavour to make up for it. Unfortunately, my life is going to be consumed by final projects and papers for the next few weeks, but I hope I can get the next chapter posted soon-ish.

Reviews exponentially increase my writing speed! And I always love to hear from you, even if it's just a few words. Especially if anything in this chapter didn't make sense - please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it. Until we next meet, stay warm! (Unless you hail from the southern hemisphere, in which case, stay cool?)


	17. Broken

Okay, so I'm not _quite_ done with school yet (so... close...) but I've been working on this story as a reward for getting stuff done, which has turned out to be a surprisingly effective system. So effective that I've managed to finish another chapter, which means I can put this up.

For anyone who was disappointed by a lack of Manara last chapter... here's hoping this one makes up for it.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BROKEN

Snow fell thick and fast outside the barn windows. Mal grimaced. The walk to the transport depot would likely take close to two hours, in this weather. Assuming he didn't get lost in the storm on the way.

He hefted his satchel, lowered it to the floor. There wasn't much inside. A few pairs of clothing from back home, a blanket, his dog-eared Bible. Mal reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, and fingered the handful of 50-credit notes he'd tucked away. He'd withdrawn as much as the machine would let him take.

None of it made sense. He should have been fired already. Publicly whipped, put in stocks, locked up. Whatever they did on Sihnon to someone like him, who dared to touch someone like her.

But Davis seemed content to hold what he'd seen over Mal's head, and watch him like a hawk in the meantime. Hence the reason why it had taken Mal a week to find a moment where he could sneak away and access his account. After tomorrow, he couldn't make any move that left a trace. Nothing that could tell Jo and Moran where he was. And they'd surely be looking, when he failed to show up tomorrow, on the day of Elections. His deadline.

Mal didn't have much of a plan. Find passage back home, find Silas, explain that he'd screwed everything up. Again. Maybe he could hide in Hadley's basement for a couple months. Or he could find work somewhere else on Shadow. It was a sizeable planet, surely there was somewhere he could stow himself away until Mercey forgot about him.

Mal crossed the barn, to Babylon's stall. The horse was awake, watching him, silent and knowing. Mal leaned on the stall door. He sighed, rubbing Babylon's neck. Babylon huffed through his nostrils.

"What else can I do, Red?" Mal murmured. "I'm runnin' like a coward. But I'm done. Done disappointin' everyone."

He turned around, back braced against the stall door, and slid to the ground. He lay his forearms on his knees, and shut his eyes.

It was times like these that the old hurt flared. The hurt that had grown up with him, into whatever he was now. _A boy in a shell._ Mal drew his knees into his chest. He reached under the collar of his shirt, to pull out the silver cross. It dug into his palm.

He held his breath. All of him tensed, tuned to one pitch, straining to catch an echo.

He snapped his eyes open, emptied his lungs. Nothing. Her voice hadn't crossed the firmament to reach him, calling him her little colt. No phantom hands had cupped his face. She just… wasn't there.

The dim light inside the stables fractured at the edges of Mal's vision. He set his jaw, and got up. He slung his satchel over his shoulder.

He made one last pass around the barn, looking in on every stall, ensuring the horses were bedded down proper. There'd be another stable hand to replace him in no time at all, of course. Mal hoped the next one would be kind to them. And patient with Colossus, who'd gotten much easier to work with, but still had his days.

Again, Mal stopped at Babylon's stall. He pressed his hands into the gelding's cheeks, tilted forward to touch foreheads. He pulled in a deep breath, and turned away, gripping the strap of his bag in both hands. He took a step toward the door.

It burst open. Wind hissed inside, carrying a gust of snowflakes along with it. They parted around a slight, solitary form, glowing like an apparition.

The door slammed shut, and Inara stumbled into the barn. Arms wrapped tight around herself, glassy-eyed. She wasn't wearing her cloak. Only an ivory ball gown that looked like it was woven out of spider silk. It clung to her, leaving her shoulders bare.

Mal's bag slipped from his shoulder, and fell to the floor. He started toward her, then stopped. She looked… cold. The wind had pinked her cheeks and lips, and tugged half her curls free of some convoluted hairstyle with uncountable gleaming pins.

At last Mal found his voice. "Inara, what-"

Before he could do a thing to stop her, she crashed headlong into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. Her hands pressed into his shoulder blades, pulling him as close as physically possible.

Mal stood stiff, arms out at his sides, paralyzed. Then, slow and cautious, he put his arms around Inara's shoulders.

"I'm sorry." Her voice vibrated in his chest. It was such a novel sensation that Mal struggled to comprehend her words. "I shouldn't have come here, I know, what with Davis… I've already gotten you in so much trouble-" she cut off, on the edge of a sob.

"Whoa, hey now. It's okay." Mal rubbed her back, just below her shoulders. The action grounded him. Her breathing slowed. "What's goin' on?" he thought to ask, finally.

Inara didn't answer. She pulled back. Her eyes had landed on his satchel.

 _"Wǒ de tiān a._ He did fire you."

Mal shook his head. "No, I…"

Inara stepped out of the circle of his arms. "Then you're quitting?"

"Look, will you just-" He huffed, and shrugged off his jacket. Old and patched, it suffered in comparison to Inara's adornments, but at least the flannel lining held his own body heat. "Here." Mal draped it over Inara's shoulders.

She snapped her head up. "You're going back to Shadow."

"Yeah." Mal spoke to the ground. "Reckon I shoulda gone a long time ago."

Inara grabbed his hand in both of hers, making him jump.

"Don't go back there. Please." She was breathless, wild, looking like someone Mal had never seen before. "Promise me."

"You got no call to ask me to stay." He tried to pull his hand away.

She wouldn't let go. "Leave here, leave Sihnon if you have to. Just don't leave the Core."

Mal knit his brow. "Why?"

"Because-" Her voice strained. "Just promise me."

Mal stared down at her. Goose bumps prickled up his arms. "Tell me why."

She shook her head. "I can't. I just need you to promise."

Mal tore his hand free, and stepped back. "Look, I'm sorry if it ain't what you want, but I'm goin' back home. On the first ship I can find."

"Mal." She drew her mouth together, lifted damp eyes to his. At last, barely loud enough to be heard, she said, "There's going to be an attack. On Shadow."

The air closed around Mal's ears. It pushed into him, filled his head like a scream. He couldn't hear his own voice, as he breathed out, "What?"

"I overheard my father arguing with the Vice Minister, in his study. After they left, I managed to get inside, and his personal tablet was right there, on his desk where he always keeps it. It was open to some kind of plan-" She stopped.

"When?" Mal managed, hoarsely. "How?"

"After- that is, _if_ he's elected. I don't know how, exactly. It didn't all make sense, but- The plan said something about a blast radius. Expected mortality rates. It sounded like… bombs."

Mal's mouth went dry, scoured out. "But that'd be war."

Inara nodded. "It's not just Shadow. Hera, and Newhall, too. They're targeting areas with known Independent activity."

"The peace treaty," Mal muttered, voice cold. "It was all a lie. I knew, gorram it, I _knew."_ He gripped Inara hard by the shoulders, ignored her wide-eyed gasp. "Was Birdseye on the list of targets?"

"I don't know. There were so many." Her voice caught. "Thousands."

He let go of her. He stumbled a step back, and turned away.

Jo and Moran had to know about those plans. There would be no running from his mission. Not now.

He lost awareness of himself, shoulders hunched, hands pressed to his face, until he felt a hand on his arm. Mal jerked up straight. Inara stood close, not speaking a word. He closed his eyes again. Jaw clenched, holding himself brutally still.

"Mal." Her voice settled over him, soft. "I'm so sorry."

He couldn't move. He couldn't trust himself to look at her.

"Is Birdseye your hometown?"

He nodded.

"Perhaps you could warn them somehow, tell them to get to safety…"

Mal pulled away from her. Heat rose fast, thick in his chest. "Safety? Where would that be? How're they s'posed to get to safety if no one knows when or where the attack is comin' from?"

Inara's hands fell to her sides, twisting in the fabric of her dress. She said nothing.

"No." Mal shook his head. "There ain't no safety for us. And y'know what? Even if, somehow, someone got a message out, and ordered every human soul on Shadow to evacuate, most of 'em wouldn't leave. They'd rather die on their land."

Inara kept quiet. It was a special kind of quiet, one Mal had come to recognize. It pulled the words out of him in a long, tangled strand.

"'Bout a decade back, the big Core Ag conglomerates started circlin' us." He didn't look at her as he spoke. "They bought out local companies, property, our own politicians, and the Alliance was right behind 'em. They patented seeds so they could charge for replanting rights every season. You couldn't pay, Alliance took your property. So folk on Shadow, them as still got their own land, they had to fight to keep it."

Understanding twisted Inara's face. Mal had to turn away. He looked down at his hands.

"My mama-" The words choked him. He swallowed, tried again. "My mama didn't have crops. She was a rancher. But soon as it became clear that our government weren't workin' for us anymore, she stopped payin' taxes, in protest."

"She must be a very brave woman," said Inara.

"Yeah. She was." Mal lifted his head, staring hard into nothing. "She stood up to them, when they came for our ranch. She fought." He held onto his voice, just long enough to finish. "Right up 'til an Alliance officer shot her in the chest."

"Oh." Inara lifted a hand to her mouth. "Mal." She took a step toward him, then stopped. "I'm so-"

"Don't," he growled. The heat came flooding back, _better anger than emptiness._ He whirled on her. "Don't you dare say you're sorry. Not when it's your _liáng xīn bèi gǒu chī le_ father who's doin' this, not when- you…"

She kept quiet, let his voice dissolve into the air between them. Inara took Mal's hands in hers. She held his gaze, blinking fast, but unwavering, unwilling to look away. Mal was the one who broke, dropping his eyes.

He didn't move, as she drew closer. She slid her hands up his arms, and he let her. He let his head fall forward. He unraveled under her touch, his breath shuddering out of his mouth.

"It's not right," she murmured, into his shoulder. "We aren't made to carry all this weight." Her breath burned through his shirt. "You can't carry it all, Mal."

He could tell her. How easy it would be, to come clean about his mission, lay it all out before her. Trust her to forgive him, to understand.

But he couldn't speak. Their breath mingled, and the tug of something stronger than gravity bent his head toward her.

Mal wouldn't have moved, if she hadn't. He would have stayed like that, breathing her in, just to keep her there, hands pressed to his chest.

Inara lifted herself into him. Blood hummed in Mal's ears. He didn't think, not about his mission, or his home. There was not a single thought in his head.

His stillness was surrender, as Inara pressed her mouth to his.

* * *

translations:

 _Wǒ de tiān a -_ Good heavens, Oh my goodness

 _liáng xīn bèi gǒu chī le -_ cruel, inhuman [lit. "conscience was eaten by a dog"]

* * *

YEAH. Um. That... happened. *internal screaming* I'm sorry to end on such a cliffhanger (*cough* okay, not _too_ sorry, I love cliffhangers) but I had to split up this scene into two chapters. Which is to say: the scene is far from over... Oh boy, I was nervous about posting this chapter, but I'm _terrified_ to post the next one. Yikes!

This chapter did give me some trouble, so I would love to hear any and all thoughts on how it turned out. Constructive critique is more than welcome! I hope to screw my courage to the sticking place and get the next chapter up soon. Until then, stay shiny!


	18. Whole

Happy New Year's Eve! It took me longer to post this chapter than I anticipated, but I'm here now, for better or for worse. I will shut up presently, and let you get to reading.

It picks up right where the last chapter left off...

Soundtrack \- **Together:** "Embody Me" by Novo Amor, _Bathing Beach - EP_ _(2017)_

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WHOLE

Inara froze, mouth pressed to Mal's. Her insides turned sticky with regret. She pulled away. Silence thickened between them.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have-"

Mal stole the rest of her sentence, as he tugged her into him. Their mouths opened for each other, and the heat of his breath burned Inara from the inside out. It dizzied her, disorienting, too much all at once.

Mal kissed hard, urgent, like he expected to be struck down any moment. Inara matched him. She shook his jacket off, by way of invitation. He accepted, resting warm, callused hands on her shoulders.

Inara arched into him, as his hands traveled down her back, slipping underneath the diamond strands trailing from the neck of her dress. His thumbs hooked at her sides, pressing into the curve of her waist. Inara slid her hands up to the nape of his neck, to the soft, short down of his hair, and anchored herself there. All other points of reference had dissolved, down to the ground beneath her feet.

He broke them apart first. His breath gusted over her. His lips were reddened, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. Inara stared at him, and couldn't take in enough air no matter how she tried. Her lungs seemed to have stopped working.

She realized, dimly, that she was not in control. The piece of her mind that should have been kept separate and aware, always, had gotten caught up in the tide with the rest of her. There would be no coming back up to the surface.

There would be no coming back from this.

"'Nara." He swallowed. "You… we-"

"I know." Her thumbs rested on either side of his neck, feeling his pulse thud under his skin. "We should stop."

Mal nodded. He didn't let go of her, however. His mouth ducked toward hers, then drew away. When he clenched his jaw, a muscle in his neck twitched. Inara thought about kissing him there, where that muscle jumped.

She closed her eyes. As if that could solve anything. Mal's lips brushed hers, the barest of touches, and pulled back again.

"Can we trust the horses not to tell on us?" Inara whispered.

"I'll have a word with 'em." A smile curled his voice. "Make it worth their while."

Inara couldn't hold back a grin. "You're not above buying their silence with biscuits, then?"

"Hell, no."

She held her breath. "If I asked you to kiss me again…" She blinked up at him. "Could you say you were just following orders?"

He stiffened, tightening his grip on her waist. "Ain't nobody givin' or takin' orders here. We're just the two of us, our own selves. Forget all the rest."

She nodded. "Okay." Relief spread through her. Like a weight lifting, like something breaking.

And just like that, they quit resisting.

Inara ran her hands up through Mal's hair, as he trailed open kisses over her cheek, down the line of her jaw. His mouth met the jeweled choker around her neck. He grunted in frustration.

Inara pulled away, and undid the clasp. No sooner had she bared her neck than Mal bent forward, mouth grazing over her skin. He traced the slope of her shoulder, mapping her collarbone with kisses.

"So beautiful." His voice was so warm and open, Inara doubted he'd meant to say it aloud.

She kissed him, quick, before he could take it back. Before he could brick his wall back up, distance himself, and break the spell.

The events of that night had ripped Inara open. No doubt Mal felt the same. There was a target on his home, and Inara's father had put it there, and in that moment there was nothing either of them could do about it.

They were dousing their hurt with fire. But oh, how beautifully they burned.

Impatience sparked in Inara's stomach. She felt it in Mal, too, in the tense energy of his hands on her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and lifted her hips, in a question.

He understood instantly. His hands cradled her thighs, to boost her from underneath. Inara jumped up. She wrapped her legs around Mal's stomach, and toed off her slippers. She was weightless, giddy, in his arms. He carried her across the barn, into his bunk.

His lips left hers as he set her down gently on the bed. As soon as he kicked his boots off, Inara seized her opportunity.

She grabbed a fistful of Mal's shirt, and pulled him down to join her, kissing across his jaw. A sliver of her training cracked though then, only because she let it. She varied the pressure of her mouth, down his throat, lapping at the hollow in the base of his neck. He moaned, and she flushed with pride.

The sound roughened in his throat. His hands ran up her sides, stopping just below her breasts, and he guided her down, to lay on her back. Inara was about to suggest he let his hands go where they clearly wanted to, before her dress interrupted. The strands of jewels dug into her back.

She pushed at Mal's chest. "Wait."

He scrambled backward, as Inara sat upright. She readjusted her dress, cursing it silently. It took a moment too long before she saw the panic on his face.

"Oh. God. I-" He turned away. " _Tā mā de_. _"_ He moved to stand up, but Inara grabbed his arm, and pulled him back down.

"Mal."

He wouldn't look at her. He stared at the far wall in wretched, blank horror.

She tried again, softer, "Mal." He shot his eyes to hers. "It was just my dress." She twisted, so he could see, and offered a smile over her shoulder. "It's made to be admired, and not much else."

"Oh." He let out a breath. He didn't move, staring intently at the floor.

"It's alright," Inara said. He clearly didn't seem convinced.

"No." He shook his head. "Nothin' about this is right."

Inara blinked hard. Her eyes were filled with him. The hard line of his jaw, the angles of his face in profile.

"We can't do this, Inara. You're-"

"I know," she interrupted, bitter. "Made to be admired, and not much else."

He frowned. "Ain't what I was gonna say."

"It's doesn't matter." Inara waved a hand. "It's the truth."

 _The truth._ She could tell him. Who she was, or rather, who she was poised to become. It stabbed through her chest, from the inside out.

She sucked in a breath. "Mal, I have to-"

"You should go," he said, at the same time. Their words overlapped and tangled in the air.

"Oh." Inara bit down what she'd been about to say. "Do you want me to go?"

He looked at her with broken eyes. _No._ She couldn't tell him, not then. He'd suffered enough revelation for one night. For a lifetime.

"No," he said softly.

Inara weighed for a moment. Then, slow and heavy, she drew herself up to sit on folded legs. She undid the back of her halter neck. The dress spilled away from her, luminescent fabric pooling around her hips.

Mal's eyes widened, as Inara removed the modesty cups that covered her breasts. His mouth fell slack.

She reached up, to curl her fingers along his collar, and swallowed.

"I want to lie with you, Mal."

He blinked, frozen. She went on before he could argue, "This isn't the time. I know. But there will be a time, for us." There had to be. She had to believe it.

She saw that he did not.

"Right now, I just want to be close to you. As close as possible." She settled her voice, held herself still, consciously avoiding any technique, save for her eyes in his. "Do you want that, too?"

He nodded.

Inara's heart broke for the seriousness in him. His hands held firm by sheer will, as he undid the buttons of his flannel shirt. He pulled it off, followed by a plain tee.

A silver cross hung from a chain around his neck. Inara touched it, lifted her eyes to his.

"Belonged to my mama."

Whenever they'd discussed religion before, Mal had spoken with a certain distance, never in terms of _I_ or _my._ The warmth in his voice now told Inara just how deep he held his faith inside him. Too sacred to translate into words.

She ran a hand across the expanse of his chest. She felt his heart beating close and quick underneath his skin. The heaviness of his shoulders, dense and solid, but all of him soft at the edges. All of him, whole and warm and real.

Inara pulled her dress down her hips, and kicked it away from her legs, leaving only a slip behind. She lay back onto the bed, pulling Mal's hand. He lay down with her.

Perhaps he wasn't one for speeches. But in the language of touch, he was more than eloquent. Inara heard everything, as he took her into his arms, pulled her into his chest, until their heartbeats aligned side by side.

The next moment he tugged himself away, inching back, breaking contact. Inara half-turned to him. "Mal-"

"Hush. Ain't goin' nowhere."

Inara felt a tug in her hair. Mal teased a jeweled pin out of her up-do, which had already come half-undone. Another pin followed the first. Inara hummed in approval. Mal released her curls, gentle and methodical, running his fingers through each lock of hair as he freed it, massaging her scalp.

On what must have been the twentieth pin, he let out a small half-laugh. "Darlin', you got more hair pretties than bones in a catfish."

His low, rumbly _'darlin'_ washed over Inara, lit up in every corner of her.

"You've never called me that before," she said without meaning to, half-drunk on his hands in her hair.

"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "Prob'ly best I don't."

"Why not?"

He was silent a moment. "Should never say your wishes out loud," he said at last. "'Cause then they won't come true."

Inara could hardly breathe. "I don't believe that."

"Just an old superstition." He pulled out the last pin, then finger-combed her curls, coaxing them into a state of fluffy anarchy.

"Well, I'm not superstitious," Inara said. "And my wish is to see the Universe. I don't mean the Core. I mean everywhere." Her voice climbed up out of her, expanding in her chest. "I want to meet people from all over. I want to see forests and deserts and oceans. And blue skies, like on Earth-that-Was."

"Shadow has a blue sky," said Mal, half-muffled in her hair.

"What's it like?"

"The sky?"

"The planet."

He walked his fingers up her arm, halting at the apex of her shoulder. "Don't reckon I could do it justice." His voice was threadbare. "It's the most beautiful place in the 'Verse."

The plans on her father's tablet came crashing back into her. Inara opened her mouth, to apologize, only to close it again. The moment passed, better off entrusted to the silence.

Mal rubbed her shoulder blade in a slow, even circle. Inara arched into his touch, with a keen. A request for his body against hers, all of him. His hand paused.

"We drew our line. I, uh… don't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Inara sighed. If only she could tell him just how comfortable she was with the human body's arousal response, the years she'd spent studying it.

"I won't be uncomfortable." She reached up, to pull at his hand. "I said 'as close as possible,' and that's what I meant."

He replied by pressing himself flush against her. A moan stirred in his throat. He slid an arm over Inara's waist and bent his head, to rest his mouth on the crook of her neck.

Inara shut her eyes, the better to feel him, to absorb his heartbeat. It beat in his wrist on her stomach, fingers splayed across her bare skin.

"It's your turn." Inara tapped his hand with her own.

"Turntawhat."

"To tell me a wish."

"No," he said, automatic, voice suddenly clear.

"Please?" Ever so slow, she shifted her hips against his, subtle enough to be a mere readjustment of her position. "Tell me."

Mal moved a hand to her hip, and squeezed. "Don't do that," he said, with a hint of a growl. "'Less you're aimin' to kill me."

"Then tell me your wish."

It was equal torture for her, truth to tell. The shape of him, firm against her lower back, set alight a want that burned from her center outward. Inara went still, and waited.

Mal sighed against her neck. "I wanna be a Captain someday. With my own ship, 'n all." His voice was low, resonating in Inara's own chest. "Just small-time merchant trade, small crew. Maybe take on a few passengers once in a while. We'd keep well clear of the Core, and the Alliance. No one to take orders from."

"Except you."

Inara felt his grin, like sunlight on the back of her neck. "Right. Except me."

"And what about me?" She asked it with a playful lilt, but her heart pounded in her chest. "Would I be let on your ship?"

"Sure, what the hell. You'll be our very own Ambassador. You can ride our pet unicorn, Mr. Pointy."

Inara swatted his arm, giggling. "Stop." She made her voice serious. "Don't make fun. It's a lovely wish. Promise me you'll hold onto it."

"Ain't never gonna happen."

"Just promise."

"Fine, Madam Ambassador. I promise." His hand crept over the bedspread, to find hers. His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles. "Now you gotta make _me_ a promise."

Inara lost her breath again. "And what's that?"

"Don't go work for the Alliance. You're too smart and kind and Buddha-lovin'. Don't fit the profile."

The words tore through Inara's chest. "I may not have a choice," she said softly.

"You always have a choice," said Mal, firm, matter-of-fact. "Now promise me, or I'll take mine back."

"Alright. I promise." Even as she said it, the words tasted empty. Her throat tightened. "Are you still planning to go back to Shadow?"

"No."

A numb relief spread through her. "Where will you go, then?"

He was silent a long moment. "I don't know."

Inara turned herself over to face him. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, where his lips curled ever so slightly, always, even when he wasn't smiling. She sat upright. He freed her from his arms, and followed suit.

Inara dressed slowly. Mal watched, his shirts still crumpled at the foot of the bed. He didn't move until Inara lifted the halter neck of her gown. In an instant he was standing next to her, reaching out to take both halves of the clasp. Inara held up her hair as he fastened the dress at the back of her neck, fingers sure and steady.

She turned to him, and opened her mouth.

He shook his head. "Best we don't speak on it."

He found Inara's hand down at her side, and pulled it upward, coaxing it into a cup. He tipped a glittering handful of of her hairpins into it. Inara closed her fingers around them.

"Won't they wonder why you're all…" He gestured to her hair.

She shrugged. "Let them wonder."

Mal almost smiled. He cupped her face with his free hand. She leaned into his touch. He tilted her chin upwards.

He bent down and kissed her, with a patience he'd lacked before. Inara returned it, every ounce, and knew in the truest part of her that she would never be able to recreate this, not if she trained in the arts of intimacy for rest of her life.

It took everything she had to pull away. To carry herself out of the room, knowing Mal was behind her. Knowing he would follow her to the door, and not a step beyond it.

In the main aisle of the stables, Mal shrugged his flannel shirt on, leaving the buttons undone. Inara retrieved her necklace and slippers from the floor. Mal picked up his jacket. He held it out to Inara, jaw set hard.

"Snow's still comin' down fierce. You should take this."

She couldn't, and they both knew it. She shook her head. "I'll be fine. Thank you." She turned to leave, but took barely two steps before she turned back, the words tumbling out of her.

"I'm going to talk to my father. I'll convince him to not to go through with the attack."

Mal kept silent. She couldn't read his eyes.

Inara took a breath. "I'll make him realize he can't get away with it. Not without losing a daughter."

Still Mal said nothing, but his mouth softened. He nodded.

He followed her to the door, opening it for her stiffly, with a sense of ceremony.

" _Mangalam_ ," Inara burst, on impulse. She flushed at the hopeless inadequacy of the word. "It means good luck."

"You, too," he said huskily.

Inara looked away. Her throat was too full to speak. What else could she say? There was no script for them to follow. No convention that governed a goodbye between two people who should never have known each other in the first place. They stood close, but not touching.

She breathed in his warmth, one last time, and stepped out into the snow.

* * *

 _Phew_. This chapter. Was _so_ hard to write. It felt like juggling geese, trying to balance the tone and all. I have no idea if I succeeded, but at a certain point I had to stop poking at it, and just post it.

So, I know one of your New Year's resolutions is to support your local fanfic writers (-no? it's not? well, it should be) so to that end... pretty please review? I would love to hear any and all thoughts on this chapter! Meanwhile I'll be banging away on the next, and since I'm on winter break it hopefully shouldn't be too long before Chapter 19 is posted. Sending each of you all the shiniest wishes for the new year!


	19. Light of Day

First update of the new year! I hope 2019 is off to a splendid start for you all. Before we dive back into the story, I must first profess my eternal gratitude to everyone who reviewed last chapter - I had my doubts about it, but you had only kind words for me. Thank you. _And_ a big welcome and thank you to my recent followers! I can't tell you how happy I am to see that people are still getting into this story, and I do hope you continue to enjoy.

Soundtrack \- **Certainty:** "A Grave Situation" by Henry Jackman & Dominic Lewis, from _The Man in the High Castle: Season One OST (2017)_

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

LIGHT OF DAY

There was a hairpin in Mal's bed.

A thin shard of silver, with jewels that glistened like fresh frost. Mal stared at it for a long while before he picked it up. He sat on the edge of the bed, turning the pin over and over in his fingers.

There was no sense in waiting, in delaying the inevitable. He knew his orders. In case of emergency, he was to call Moran, using the one-time signal scrambler they'd given him. Accessing the Cortex from the screen in his bunk, he'd input the number for Moran's personal line, and make a five-minute call that couldn't be overheard nor traced by the Feds. In theory.

Mal turned to his satchel, sitting next to him on the bed, and opened an inner pocket, to pull out the signal scrambler. It looked oddly similar to Inara's hairpin, a paper-thin piece of metal with a minute pattern inscribed on one side.

Mal tucked the hairpin inside the pocket. He pulled on his boots, and stood up.

He gave himself a hard look in the mirror on the back of his door. Moving slowly, he buttoned his shirt. Moran's words came back to him, a cruel, taunting echo.

 _You will not engage in physical relations of any kind with the Councilor's daughter._

Mal brushed a hand back over his hair, to make it orderly-like.

 _Stay in control. Remember your mission._

He held still, staring at himself, holding his breath. Then he let it all out at once. With violent force, to empty himself, pull his lungs inside out. He shut his eyes.

Echoes of her touch clung to him. Everywhere. Her fingers on the back of his neck, in his hair, her hand pressing into his, over her stomach.

His pulse quickened. Moran would read it in him, plain as day.

Mal opened his eyes. _Don't be stupid._ Moran couldn't tell a thing. As long as there wasn't any lipstick on his face. He checked. There wasn't.

There wasn't a trace of her anywhere, except for the hairpin, and the rumpled imprint she'd left in his sheets, which he could barely stand to touch because as soon as he mussed them, she would really be gone. It was just as well he didn't expect to be sleeping much that night.

He crossed the room, and activated the screen set into the wall above the desk. A few taps led him to the Cortex communications network. It prompted him to the enter the address. Mal inserted the signal scrambler into an input slot beside the screen, then punched in the 9-digit sequence from memory.

A few seconds later, Moran's face blinked onto the screen. He was shrouded in shadow, lit only by the glow of his own communicator. His ruddy face was washed pale, ghostly.

Mal didn't waste any time. "I've got it," he said. "Proof."

In an instant Moran was fully alert, upright, turning on a light over his head.

Mal told him every last detail he knew: the tablet on the desk in Zhi's private study, the list of targets, the 'blast radius' calculations and 'expected mortality rates.' In the back of his mind, a piece of Mal wondered at the lack of emotion in his voice.

"You got the security layouts I gave you. As long as Zhi doesn't have the tablet on him, it'll be there. Inara said it's always in his desk. The door to his study's got a bio-security lock, opens to his thumbprint alone. But crowded party, lotta champagne glasses moving around. Wouldn't be too hard to lift his print."

Moran nodded.

Mal set his jaw. "I can't do it."

Moran blinked. He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You gotta send someone else in." Mal didn't waver. "I can't be the one to get those plans."

"And why not?"

"I snuck into the house once already, a week ago. It… didn't go well."

"Not good enough, Brownie."

"Inara saw me." Mal's mouth went dry, words clumping like cotton on his tongue. "She wanted to know why I was there."

Moran held for a few terrifying beats of silence.

"'Course, I fed her a lie, which she believed," Mal said quickly. His gut twisted. "But I can't do it again."

"Sounds like you weren't careful enough. This time, you will be." Moran rubbed his fist absently. "Go to the cook or director of indoor staff. Offer yourself up to work the party tomorrow night. Odds are, they'll be glad of the extra help."

"But-"

"Tomorrow morning Osborne will make a dead drop with the things you need to get past the biotech, and hack into the tablet. He's coming anyway, with the other supplies they need for their final night. Wait until just after he leaves, then go pick it up. He'll leave it in a bag of fertilizer, up by the gardens, so you won't look strange carrying it down to the stables."

"Listen," Mal cut in, at last. "This whole party is for Inara's graduation, she's- the belle of the ball, or whatever. There's no way I can do this without her seein' me."

"You'll find a way." Moran's eyes burned through the screens separating them. "I hope you're not suggesting you've been somehow compromised…"

"No," Mal said hoarsely. He swallowed, and tried again, "I'm solid."

"Good." Moran's voice could have cut steel. "This is your moment of truth, Reynolds. You've proven yourself capable of decent work. Now you have to do better. In and out, no complications."

"No complications," Mal echoed, feeling sick.

"Bring the memory flash with the plans to Kāi Shǐ Station, in the city. We'll meet you there at o-five hundred Saturday. Don't be late. And I don't need to tell you this, but if you fail-"

"I won't," Mal cut in, sharper than he needed to, hands fisting at his sides. He added, quiet, "I won't let you down."

With a single nod, Moran terminated the connection. Mal stared at the empty blue screen.

He eyed the clock. Their conversation had lasted two and half minutes. Only half the signal scrambler's lifespan. He left it in, and tapped out another comm code.

It was beyond risky. Comms security may have worked its way through the scramble tech. But as far as Mal figured, he was already wedged pretty good between a rock and a hard place. What difference did it make if he inched in deeper?

Hadley's grin lit up the screen when he answered. It was daytime on Shadow. Sunlight spread over the McDannel family's kitchen in the background, cozy and familiar.

"Mal!" Hadley laughed in surprise.

The hole in Mal's chest, which had been there ever since he left Shadow, gaped wide. A pang of homesickness nearly brought tears to his eyes.

He managed a smile. "Heya, Danny boy." He noticed, with a jolt, the hand-me-down suit Hadley was wearing. It had been Mal's. The last time he'd worn it was at his mother's funeral. Hadley had brightened it up with a green tie and a yellow bellblossom on the lapel, Shadow's official flower. "You're lookin'… cleaner than usual," said Mal.

" _Qù_ _nǐde,"_ Hadley quipped, still grinning. "We're celebratin' big in town today. Gonna dance and drink for a week at least." His eyes got big. "Wait. You haven't heard?"

Mal's stomach dropped. "Heard what?"

Hadley could barely contain his joy, bursting from him, as he threw out his hands. "The Alliance are _gone!_ No more peacekeepers in the streets! All of 'em up and pulled out yesterday mornin'. Here we thought nothin' would come of this peace treaty, but we were wrong." His grin slipped. "Mal? How come you ain't smiling?"

He had to look away. _Gorrammit._

"Come to think, the hell you callin' me up for?" Hadley's face fell serious. "What's goin' on?"

"Hadley-" Mal started, then stopped short. How could he do this? When Hadley was so happy, looking so fresh. When all of Birdseye was breathing the first gasp of fresh air they'd had in years, _four years_ since the Alliance had trooped in and occupied them, four years of quiet and careful and curfew and no crowds except in church.

Mal forced the words to come. "Listen. Alliance didn't pull out 'cause 'a the peace treaty. They-"

"One second." Hadley held up a hand, turning away from the screen. "What, Ma? …Yeah, okay! I'll bring 'em, just- two shakes!"

"Dammit, _listen,"_ Mal barked, brutally aware of the seconds slipping past. "They're planning to attack Shadow. With bombs, or… somethin', I ain't rightly sure. But Birdseye's gotta be high on the list of targets. 'Specially if they've pulled out already."

Hadley stared at him, blinking. He wore his 'Mal-you-crazy- _wángbādàn'_ face.

"The man I been spyin' on, he's set to become Chancellor of Military Affairs, if the Election goes his way tomorrow night. I've still gotta get hold of his plans, but I know he's aiming to wipe out the Independents. He'll do anything. Even kill innocent folk."

Hadley's face screwed up, brow bunching together. "But... the peace treaty-"

"Was a lie," Mal cut him off. "They don't care about us. They only care about their precious Unification Initiative."

Hadley frowned. After a moment, he said, "You look like you need some sleep, Mal." His mouth drew tight. "Just- come home, alright? You should be here."

"Hadley, wait-"

"I gotta go. My ma's gonna have kittens if I don't get her pies down to the square right quick." His eyes flashed with apology, regret, as he reached up to the screen.

The connection vanished before Mal could say another word.

30 seconds left on the signal scrambler. Mal jerked it out of the slot, and threw it down on the ground. He stomped it with his boot until it shattered, then kept going, even as his vision blurred and it got too hard to breathe.

He pulled out the chair from his desk, and sat down heavily. He put his elbows on his knees, head falling forward. He ground the heel of his palms into his eyes.

He'd done all he could. But it wasn't enough.

His only hope was that Hadley would come around to it. He'd pass the warning on to Silas, and get the word out. Put everyone on alert, for whatever good it might do. Hadley had always been the one with the most smarts, between the two of them. He saw it like it was, and said as much.

Mal knew exactly what Hadley would have to say about Inara. _'Forget this Coreworlder girl. Why you always gotta make more trouble for yourself?'_

"Good question," Mal muttered.

If he'd only kissed her, in the messy and desperate way they had at first, that would've been one thing. But no. He had laid down beside her, bared his soul to her, told her his most secret wish. And she had bared herself to him, too. Not just in the flesh sense.

It was her voice that had been naked, when she told him, _"I want to lie with you, Mal."_

Sweet mercy. The power of those seven words. Mal could wrap them around himself and walk through fire. They could fuel his heart for a thousand lifetimes. Somewhere deep inside him, he held those words safe, unwilling to let go.

 _Don't mean nothing,_ Mal tried to tell himself. They'd both been hurting, that was all. They'd been there for each other, a convenient distraction, a comfort. They'd shared a moment of weakness. That was the whole of it.

Best not to think on it, he decided. Best to forget.

He spent a long time trying. He sat slumped in the chair, eyes lost in the ebbing shadows of the room. He wasn't about to fall asleep, not in that bed, not with the ghost of her lying next to him. Not with millions of souls depending on him, weighing on his chest.

He sat in the chair until the night faded into day. Dawn's light found him scoured out with exhaustion, but not quite empty. It didn't matter.

He had a job to do.

* * *

translations:

 _Qù nǐde -_ F*ck you, shut up (used jokingly and is not considered insulting)

 _wángbādàn -_ bastard

* * *

So... not the most exciting chapter, I'll admit, but a necessary one. It gets a lot more exciting from here on out, I promise, as everything starts going wrong. Murphy's law and all that, you know. My hands are tied.

Any and all thoughts are welcome: predictions, suggestions, concerns? (Did you all forget who Hadley was? I don't blame you - he wins the award for most off-screen side character, second only to Mal's guardian, Silas. I wish I could've written more of them, but *sigh* what can you do.) Anyways, I truly love to hear from you, even if it's just to say that you're excited to see what happens next. I am personally beyond excited to post the next chapter... here's hoping I can do that soon!


	20. Performance

I've gotten back into a weekly update groove, it seems! Who knows how long I'll be able to keep it up...

This chapter really starts that downhill slide to the climax. Oh, I can't wait for y'all to read it! And as always, hope you enjoy.

Soundtrack \- **The One that I Love:** "An Hini a Garan" by Tobias Southcott, from _Harp Portrait, Celtic (2004) ..._ If you only listen to one "soundtrack" song for this story, let it be this one. Unfortunately it was taken off YouTube (grrr) but it is on Spotify. This is the one soundtrack song that truly ties into the story - you'll see how, promise.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

PERFORMANCE

 _10 - 01 - 2506_

Dread itched at the back of Inara's neck.

The whole day, she'd been torn between hoping to find a moment alone with her father, and wishing that she never saw him again.

She hadn't found her chance yet. He'd been locked into close conference with his campaign team all day. They'd taken over one of the two small libraries on the first floor, glued to their Cortex screens and tablets, watching the results trickle in from the Electoral Councils of each district on all 14 Allied planets. The final numbers wouldn't be tallied until the wee hours of the following morning.

Solomon's private study remained untouched by the spread of his campaign work, out of his own principle. Whenever Inara passed by its doors, bile rose up her throat. The previous night pressed into her skin: the tablet, the numbers, the names of places marked for destruction.

But after, _after,_ in the barn, in Mal's bunk. A sliver of joy that Inara held close to her chest. A handful of minutes no one could take from her.

"Miss Serra?"

Inara blinked. One of the dressers who'd been hired for the week, a slight woman about Inara's age named Bette, was looking at her curiously.

They stood before a full-length mirror, in the room set aside for Inara's daily preparations. Another dresser fussed with the golden tiara on Inara's head, affixing it with invisible pins so that it appeared to rest there by magic. Tonight they'd pulled Inara's hair only half-up, with a gold clip in the back. The rest tumbled over her shoulders in loose, shiny curls. Inara touched one, absently.

"How does it suit you, miss?" Bette asked. "Are you comfortable?"

Inara looked at the gown. A masterwork in gold, pearls and sequins, with an open neck and jeweled cap sleeves. The trailing skirts rippled like water in the slightest breath of air. A long, sheer golden cape spread out from the neckline along the back, attached to strands of jewels around each of her wrists.

It was the most elaborate of all the outfits Inara had worn that week. And the heaviest. The bodice cinched in her waist, making every breath shallow and difficult.

"I'm fine." Inara managed a smile, and added more warmly, "It's perfect. Thank you."

A knock came from the door. "Inara?" Her father's voice drifted in.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. _"Qǐng jìn,"_ she called.

He swept into the room, sending the dressers scurrying out of his way.

"Ah. Look at you," he cooed. "My _bǎo wù."_

Golden embroidery twined along the lapel and sleeves of his black three-piece suit, intended to complement Inara's dress. His eyes filled as he looked at her. Inara looked away, anywhere but at his face.

The dressers ducked out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"You are a gift from the heavens. I can't blame anyone who falls in love with you tonight." He stepped closer, and frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Inara hesitated. Before she could answer, he was already filling the silence.

"I know exactly what the trouble is." He drew to her side, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Your final evaluation before the Guild is the day after tomorrow. It's perfectly normal to be stressed-"

 _"No."_ Inara wrenched herself out of his grip. Her hesitation crumbled, replaced by something cold and iron-like. She put it into her voice. "I heard you and the Vice Minister arguing last night. I know about your plans to attack the Border planets."

Solomon went still. He was silent for one second too long.

Then he jerked his head back, blinking. "What?" He breathed out an empty laugh. "You must have misunderstood-"

"No. I didn't. You're planning to drop bombs on the Independents. Innocent people will die."

"No, no no no." Solomon lifted his hands, furrowing his brow. "My darling, _no._ Here, sit. Listen."

Inara didn't want to sit and listen. But before she knew it, her father had pulled over a chair, and pressed her down into it, gentle yet insistent. He knelt in front of her, careful not to tread on her gown. He took her hands in his.

"First and foremost, remember that the Independents are not innocent. They are terrorists. They lack any sense of right and wrong. I blame it on their culture, quite frankly. They are an uncivilized and lawless people."

Inara kept silent. On the inside, she burned, with everything Mal had told her the night before. What the Alliance had done to people on the Border. What they had taken.

"It is for the safety of everyone in the Core, in the entire Universe, that we must eliminate the Independent threat." His voice was aflame, unwavering. "But there will be no bombs. No innocent lives lost. I promise you."

Inara pulled her hands out of his. "You're lying," she breathed.

A part of her wanted so much to believe him. The part that remembered the man who had let his little girl drag him through the gardens every Sunday, who helped her up onto her first horse. The man who had rented an entire planetarium to give her a 'tour of the Universe' for her tenth birthday, and had wept openly on her twelfth, the day she became a Companion-in-training.

"How can you lie to me?" Heat flooded her eyes, and she blinked against it. "How can you do this?"

Solomon reached out to her, and Inara jerked to her feet, tipping the chair over with a clatter. She twisted away from him.

"Inara." His voice took on an edge. "This is stress, and nothing more. You can't afford to give into it. Not tonight. You have guests to perform for."

She crossed her arms, gripping her shoulders tight. "I won't."

"You won't what?"

"I won't perform for them." She held still. As far as protest went it was on par with a child stomping her feet, but she couldn't think of anything better. "I refuse."

Her father's nostrils flared, eyes locked in hers. For the first time, a burst of true fear opened in Inara's chest.

But the next moment he softened, shoulders relaxing. He let out a breath. "My dear. I know how difficult the past week has been. But this is the last night. You're at the finish line. In two days you'll present yourself before the Guild, and receive your license, and months from now you'll look back and know that all of this was worth it." He lifted his mouth in a grim smile. "We all must sacrifice. This is yours."

Inara shut her eyes, and drew a long breath through her nose. She let it out.

Downstairs, hundreds of the richest and most powerful people in the Core were waiting for her. Truth told, she didn't care at all about disappointing them. She never had.

But Priestess Song was waiting, too. The thought of letting her down tied Inara into knots.

She held herself still. An unheard scream tore through her body. But when it cleared, the answer had settled inside her, steady as a prayer stone. An alternate option.

"Alright." Inara composed herself from the outside-in, and lifted her eyes to his. "I'll perform."

/*/*\\*\

"You're so quiet. Are you nervous?"

Inara could barely shake her head. Riz linked her arm with Inara's, murmuring in her ear as they entered the ballroom set up for the performance. Rows upon rows of seats filled the floor in neat lines, facing a stage constructed solely for this night. Inara's harp stood in a spotlight, waiting for her.

Guests had already filled most of the seats. The last few trickled in from the edges, chatting, adjusting the copious fabric demanded by current fashion trends. The indoor staff slipped in after everyone else, to arrange themselves in standing rows along the back of the room.

"If you're nervous, don't be," Riz kept chattering away. "You're going to be luminescent. I can't wait to hear your piece. I still think it's silly that you had to practice in secret, even from other trainees. Like, what's the big deal?"

Inara hummed in agreement, barely listening. She and Riz walked along the side of the room, toward their reserved seats in the front row. Someone in service uniform ducked past them, a black-and-white blur.

Something in the person's movement made Inara stop. She turned around.

She watched as he sidled up to the end of the first line of staff. He stood like the rest of them, stiff and straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. His face was perfectly blank, staring straight ahead.

Inara gaped. Surely this couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real. Unthinking, she began to move toward him, before Riz pulled at her arm.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Mal," Inara let out in a breath. "He's here." At Riz's baffled look, she added, "The stable hand."

Her eyes flew wide. " _Bùhuì_ _ba_." She whirled to scan the staff. "Where?"

Inara jerked her wrist, hissing, "Riz." Then, "He's at the end of the first line. Closest to us."

Riz stole a glance. Her brow shot up. "Oh." She turned to Inara, lips pulled tight against a grin. "I see why you risked expulsion for him. So would I. _Whew._ "

"Don't joke, please." Inara bit her lip. "This is a disaster."

Riz let Inara pull her along, toward their seats. "Why?"

It all came out in a whispered rush, much as Inara tried to stop it. "I went to him last night, and we kissed, and we almost laid together, and I've still never told him I'm a Companion-in-training and now he's going to find out. If he hasn't already."

"How- _what-_ you-!"

 _"Shhh."_ Inara squeezed her friend's hand, hard, as they reached their seats. Riz sat down slowly, mouth still hanging open. On the other side of Inara sat Priestess Song, who gave her an encouraging smile.

Inara returned it, and tried to contain the panic expanding in her chest.

Last night had been the one thing she thought she could keep safe, no matter what happened. But now it would be taken from her, too. Tainted by the knowledge that Mal would never think of her the same way again.

He would never forgive her.

Her father ascended the stage, and cast a glowing smile over the crowd. He spoke into a slim microphone in his hand. "Dear friends, distinguished guests, honorable officials. It has been my honor to receive you all into my home."

The ease in his voice sent a chill down Inara's spine. Onstage, he was in his element. He held his audience in the palm of his hand.

How could she ever hope to challenge him here?

"You didn't come from all corners of the Universe to listen to an old windbag like me," he said with a wry smile. Laughter rippled through the crowd. "But as long as your patience allows, I would like to say a few words to introduce the jewel in the crown of House Madrassa, the one you've all come to see. My daughter, Inara Serra."

Inara froze. The applause from behind her was like needles on her skin.

"It has been my greatest pleasure in life to watch Inara grow into the poised, intelligent, and lovely woman she has become. And I know," he stumbled for the briefest moment, "that her mother's spirit is with us, and she is just as proud as I am."

Again, Inara wanted to scream. She held it inside her, held herself still.

"My dear." Solomon turned his eyes to her, with a smile. "You will soon ascend to the most treasured rank of our society. The rank of Companion." He flashed a grin to the crowd. "I think we can all agree that Companions are the true backbone of Parliament, if not every intellectual industry in the Core. Without them, no work would ever get done."

Applause and laughter resounded throughout the room. It flushed Inara's entire body white-hot. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

"Her service is not only to her clients, but to the Great Alliance itself. She shall help with the work that builds a better Universe. Her grace and talent is the mark of a noble cause." Applause began to build, but he held up a hand. "With that, it is my profound honor to bring Inara Serra to the stage."

Inara could barely hear his words over the ringing in her ears, and the applause filling the hall. She stood shakily, and ascended the stage. Her father gave her a smile, as he handed over the microphone. A spark lit his eyes: a reminder of her duty. Almost, but not quite, a threat.

He left the stage, left her standing alone, under the hot white lights. Inara blinked, as her eyes adjusted.

If she strained, she could see Mal, in the back corner of the room. The faint outline of his face, stone-still, staring at her.

The silence lodged in her throat. Her father took his seat beside Priestess Song, and they both gazed up at her. A flicker of concern crossed Min's brow.

Inara swallowed. "Thank you, Councilor." Her palms were so slick she feared she might drop the microphone. "I extend my deepest gratitude to everyone here tonight. I'm humbled by your presence, and I hope my music may convey what words cannot."

She stopped. She was only supposed to introduce her piece, a traditional song for Breton Celtic harp from the time of Earth-that-Was.

Her hands shook. She tried to still them.

"But I must speak about something else, first." She didn't dare look at Solomon as she said it, nor the Priestess. "You all know that this celebration comes at a fraught time. We live in uncertainty. Under the tenuous peace granted by a treaty which is nothing more than a promise, and at any moment may be broken."

The faces in the crowd lost their comfortable, bored glaze. Tension pricked the air.

"That is why I dedicate my performance to the people of the planet Shadow."

She let the words sink in. Guests shifted in their seats, murmuring to each other. A clump of society reporters by the windows perked up like tigers at the scent of blood, adjusting their cameras.

Inara risked a glance at her father. His face had fallen utterly still. A stillness with rage inside it. Inara didn't stop.

"I imagine many of you have never set foot on Shadow. I haven't." She tightened her jaw. "But all of you have heard its name in the news, in headlines decrying violent acts committed by the Independents."

This sparked a few exclamations, mostly from aging Lords. Inara grew her voice. "We are eager to condemn their violence, while we refuse to acknowledge our own. I beg you, friends and honored guests, to look around you. Look inside yourselves. The Alliance has done great things, but- it's done terrible things, too. And we can't stay silent. We must dare to value human life above any one vision of the Universe."

She was burning under the lights. The threat of tears laced her words with something raw. "I dedicate this song to Shadow's blue sky. And to the people who live beneath it, who work and dream and deserve our empathy."

Her eyes sought the place where Mal stood, at the back of the room.

He wasn't there.

Inara gripped the microphone tighter, held onto the fraying thread of her voice.

"My song is called _An Hini a Garan,_ which means…" Her voice caught, and splintered into a whisper. "'The One that I Love.'"

A strange sureness spread through her, then. As the room sparked and grated with whispers, Inara sat down at the harp. She placed the microphone inside the stand, and pointed it toward the strings. She adjusted the pedals to the proper key, spread her dress carefully, and readied her hands.

The first chord rippled out, strong and anguished, demanding attention. All fell silent.

Inara didn't think while she played. She was only a channel. The chords spun from her chest, through her veins. Everything she had pressed down, every swallowed scream and word, all rose to the surface and bled into the music. It was aching, pulling at every piece of her, tearing her from the inside out.

The last chord found her fingers stinging, her breath ragged. Her cheeks were wet.

She stood up, and stepped forward to receive her applause. It surrounded her in a brittle shell of sound. She was alone inside it, hollowed out.

An emcee glided up onto the stage, to introduce the next act. Inara didn't stay to hear it. She descended as quickly as her dress allowed, and rushed over to Riz. Inara pulled her out of her seat, into a fierce embrace.

"If anyone asks where I've gone, tell them I've taken ill," she whispered in Riz's ear. "Don't let them follow me."

Riz blinked, stunned. Her mouth fell open. But Inara was already turning away, to slip out of the ballroom. The whispers began to rustle behind her. This was unheard-of behavior for a soon-to-be Companion at her own debut. Borderline offensive, even.

But there was only one person whose opinion Inara cared about, in that moment.

She had to find him, before it was too late.

* * *

translation:

 _Bùhuì ba_ \- No way

* * *

YEP. I think you all know what's coming. Ohhh boy.

I cannot _wait_ to post the next chapter, and I hope I'm able to do so sooner rather than later. But before that happens, please consider dropping a word or two of response to this chapter, to feed a lonely writer's soul? Interestingly, I did not start writing this one with the intention of giving Inara a speech, so I'm really curious to hear what you all thought of it... And until we meet again in Chapter 21, stay shiny!


	21. Caught

Hey, hey! Early update party! :D This chapter is being posted now because A) I've been on a roll with this story as of late (whooo!) and B) I'm about to head back to school (boooo) and thus updates may be delayed while I get into the swing of the semester.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CAUGHT

 _"Compromised."_ That was the word Moran had used. It just about captured it.

Anger clouded Mal's head, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He paced in the foyer, jaw clenched, trying to slow his breath. This was the last thing he needed.

He needed to be focused on his mission. He needed to be a bullet. But right then, he was a wildfire in a dry forest. Uncontained, roiling.

Almost as soon as Inara got up onstage, Mal had bolted. That'd been part of his plan all along, to wait until everyone's attention was occupied, and then slip away. But more than that, it was a relief to escape the smothering air, thick with Councilor Zhi's words. Mal couldn't bear to look at her, _"the_ _jewel in the crown of House Madrassa,"_ all gleam and glitter in her golden dress.

He had even known there was a Companion school nearby. He heard about it in passing, months before. He'd never thought to make the connection.

 _You deserve this,_ he thought bitterly. He should have known. Companions were trained to make trusting fools of their clients, to pretend they cared. They lied on instinct. They breathed lies like air.

Mal shut his eyes. _You deserve this._

He shook his head. He couldn't give space to any of that in his mind, not then. He shoved it all below the surface, as he set to work. Quick and careful. _In and out, no complications._

He pressed the thin plastic strip that held Zhi's thumbprint to his own thumb. The combination of the warmth of his skin, and the correct print pattern, unlocked the door. So far, so good. Mal slipped into the study.

In the center of the room stood a handsome desk of dark, gleaming wood. Its surface was clean, except for a framed capture in the corner, of Inara and the Councilor. Mal started jerking open drawers.

 _"Zāogāo,"_ he swore through gritted teeth. "Where is it?"

The last drawer he tried was wide and shallow, just below the surface of the desk. Mal tugged at it. It was locked. A tiny antique-style lock, the kind that opened to a key.

He chewed his lip. It was too much to hope the key was somewhere in the study. No doubt Zhi carried it with him.

Luckily, Mal had picked his fair share of locks throughout his misspent youth.

All he needed was something small and thin, about the length of his thumb, that could be bent. He found it in an old-fashioned pen, sitting on the desk. He took the pen apart, and removed a thin strip of metal from inside.

Every passing second pricked the back of his neck.

At last, the lock gave way. The drawer slid open. Mal murmured, "Oh thank you, merciful Lord," almost unthinking.

The tablet lay nestled inside a velvet and leather case. Mal pulled it out. He retrieved the flash from an inner pocket of his uniform jacket, and plugged it into the side of the tablet. The flash was equipped with software to hack into the tablet's security, and make a copy of its contents.

A progress bar appeared. It crept forward. Below the bar appeared a blinking message that displayed how long until completion. _One minute… 45 seconds…_

Not bad. Mal would be out of there in no time.

The bar filled up, and more words popped onto the screen. _Access granted. Preparing to download files._ Another progress bar came up. _Downloading._ _4 minutes 17 seconds…_

Mal groaned. He set the tablet down on the desk, and braced his hands on either side.

His eyes flickered to the frame in the corner. He picked it up. The capture began to move, coming alive from a black-and-white still, to full color.

The captures his superiors showed him of Inara and Councilor Zhi, way back at that first debriefing, had all been staged, stiff and ceremonial. This one was different. Inara looked younger, her face rounder, maybe 15 or 16 years old, wearing a traditional red wrap dress. She and her father were dancing. He twirled her around, and she looked up at him, laughing, eyes sparkling. It was a short capture, no more than five seconds long.

Mal watched it play. Over and over.

Inside the tiny frame, Mal saw it all clearly. For the first time, he understood.

This was her world. This was how she had been raised. In the traditional reds worn in public by the highest of the elite, before their debut into society. She'd been told from birth that the 'Verse belonged to her. It was ingrained in her to consider someone like Mal as less-than. A servant, a thing, there for her pleasure and nothing more. It wasn't even her fault, really.

She had never thought to do anything but toy with him, from the very first time she'd come down to the barn, with that healing salve. Mal had known it, then.

At some point along the way, he'd forgotten.

It didn't really matter, the reason why. A bet with her friends. Boredom. Maybe she'd wanted to have one fling, before she was locked into a lifetime of faked, transactional romance.

All that mattered was now he knew. He knew the truth. He could throw out every piece of himself that she'd touched, and start over.

A faint rumble of applause seeped through the door, from across the foyer.

Mal picked up the tablet. The bar on the screen inched forward. _1 minute 43 seconds remaining…_ He rapped his fingers on its side. "C'mon, c'mon…"

"Mal?"

He shut his eyes, and let out a breath. _Of course._ Cold acceptance spread through him. Slowly, he turned around.

Inara shut the door behind her. She stared.

She truly was beautiful. Underneath all the layers of frippery and decoration, she shone with a light that was only hers. Mal let himself think it, because it didn't matter.

She had found him, and he'd failed.

"I saw the door was unlocked... What are you doing in here?" she asked, voice faint.

She looked to the tablet, then back up to Mal's face. "Wait." Her breath quickened, chest rising and falling, in panic. "Are you…" She stopped. Her hand lifted to her mouth, as though she might be sick.

Mal was submerged in a wonderful, numbing calm.

"Go ahead, finish that thought," he said lightly. "Am I what? A _zhǎo sǐ_ rebel spy? Independent scum? You have a variety of colorful options. Take your pick."

"Please, stop." She gulped air, and pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm trying- I'm trying to understand." She blinked at him. "You've been… this whole time?"

"No, I went to a rally last week and joined up on a whim," Mal mocked. "Yes, this whole time."

If he hadn't been numb, the hurt in her eyes would have broken him.

"But then- everything you've done, everything… it was all so you could get to my father." Her eyes filled, shining. "It was all a lie."

Mal tilted his head. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you think you were the only one who could play that game?"

A shift lurched through her. She drew up her shoulders, face hardening. "You can't possibly be comparing the fact that I didn't tell you I'm a Companion-in-training, to- to…" She threw out her hands. "To _this."_

He crossed his arms. "You're right. There's no comparison. I lied for a reason. For a cause. I even felt pretty guilty about it for a while. Well, not anymore." Mal shook his head. "Gotta hand it to 'ya. Claiming the moral high ground when your own father is planning to murder millions of people. _My_ people."

"That is not my fault." Inara's voice rose, then dropped again, rough and unsettled, "I didn't have any idea until last night-"

"No. 'Course not. But I seem to recall a part of the Councilor's little speech back there. Something about your service to the Great Alliance. That's what you'll do, right?" Mal's voice harshened, painful in his throat. "You'll perform your service, under their supervision, their control. Just the way they like it."

"Stop it," Inara hissed. "Don't lecture me on something you know nothing about. The Guild stands apart, Companions have complete autonomy-"

Mal huffed a laugh. "Stands apart, huh? Y'know, that's the problem with you Coreworlders. You're too close to see things clearly. You don't have the perspective I do."

"Oh please, enlighten me."

"Ain't no difference between the Guild and the government that allows it to exist. You go work in one of them establishments, you'll be working for the Alliance. And people will be dyin', in my hometown and thousands like it, while you're givin' _chuī gong_ to some rich and pretty Parliament aide-"

"Enough!" Mal was half-surprised to see tears glistening on her cheeks. "That's enough," she repeated, quiet.

"Yeah. I reckon it is." He dropped his eyes, mouth hard. "You can call your father, now."

"That's what you expect from me? You think I want to see you arrested?"

He scowled. "Don't pretend you care about me." Some of the calm started to slip away. His cheeks warmed. "Not now I know what you are."

"And what is that?" A sob warbled her words. "Someone who made a mistake?"

"No. That ain't it at all." He struggled to hold firm. _She ain't cryin' 'cause she's sorry she did it. Just sorry she got caught._ "You were very intentional. Very… precise, in the exercise of your art. You had your fun with me, and you got exactly what you wanted."

She wiped under her eyes, and spat, "Well, that would make us even, then. Wouldn't it."

"Even, maybe. But not equal. Any second, you can run cryin' to your daddy, and he'll disappear this little problem for you, just like that."

She shot him a look, incredulous. "You honestly think there wouldn't be consequences for me, if I did?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would there be?"

"I broke the rules for you, Mal. If it came to light that we- that we were… that we spent time alone, I'd be expelled from House Madrassa. I'd forfeit any chance of receiving my Companion license." Her eyes filled again. "I would lose everything."

Mal shrugged. "Maybe you'll have to go into politics, after all."

For a long moment, Inara stared at nothing, her hands tight at her sides. Mal listened, as she steadied her breath.

Even now, a part of him knew this was likely the last time he'd ever see her. So he took in everything he could. The cadence of her breathing. The shape of her mouth, lips slightly parted. The perfect wholeness of her, which he'd known pressed up against him, and never would again.

In the silence, he almost broke. He almost apologized. The words rose on his tongue, burning him.

In the end, she spoke first. Her voice was bare and empty.

"I'm not going to call my father. I won't condemn you. I won't help you. I'll simply leave this room, and leave you-" she faltered, for half a breath. "Leave you behind me." She met his eyes. "Whether you believe it or not, I hope you succeed in your mission."

Mal gave a slight bow. The words were out, like acid in his mouth, before he could stop them. "Then allow me to wish you all the best in your career."

Another swell of applause echoed from the ballroom. Inara didn't look at him. Her throat tensed as she swallowed. She turned, and left, with a delicate swish of her cape.

Mal stood staring at the space she had filled. A golden imprint behind his eyes when he blinked.

He turned back to the tablet. _Download complete._

He tugged the flash out of the slot, tucked it back inside his jacket. He replaced everything just like he'd found it, as much as he could. In the end he couldn't get the pen back together, and pocketed the whole thing, hoping Zhi would assume he lost it.

He slipped out of the study, used Zhi's thumbprint to lock it again, and tried to leave behind everything in that hateful room. He'd done the job, he told himself.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

translations:

 _Zāogāo -_ Damn, dammit

 _zhǎo sǐ_ \- looking to die, asking for trouble

 _chuī gong -_ blowjob (lit. 'blow service')

* * *

Alright, I know things look bleak... and they are. And it's going to get worse before it gets better. But it _will_ get better. Promise.

Now, here's where I make the usual pitch, asking for any feedback - but I just want to reiterate that hearing _anything_ from you lovely readers makes my whole day. If you're reading this, right now, and thinking to yourself "Oh, she doesn't mean _me,_ she wouldn't care what I think," then think again, because I really do care. Even if it's just two words, I want to hear them.

And now, back to packing... wish me luck. :| See you in Chapter 22!


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